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x° 9 <. t 































THE 

DESERT HEALER 

. BY 

E. M. HULL 

Author of “The Sheik” 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 

CcWS 








Copyright, 1922 and 1923 
INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY 

Copyright, 1923 

By SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 


v 3 



Printed in the United States of America 

THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 

BOUND BY THE BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 


THE DESERT HEALER 

















*' 
























0 



























THE DESERT HEALER 


CHAPTER I 

The slanting rays of the afternoon sun, unusually 
powerful for the time of year, lay warmly on the south¬ 
ern slopes of a tiny spur of the Little Atlas Mountains, 
glowing redly on the patches of bare earth and naked 
rock cropping out between the scrubby undergrowth that 
straggled sparsely up the hill-side, and flickering through 
the leaves of a clump of olive trees huddled at its base 
where three horses stood tethered, lazily switching at the 
troublesome flies with their long tails and shifting their 
feet uneasily from time to time. 

Ten miles away to the westward lay Blidah, Euro¬ 
peanised and noisy, but here was the deep stillness and 
solitude—though not the arid desolation—of the open 
desert. The silence was broken only by the monotonous 
cooing of pigeons and the low murmur of voices. 

At a little distance from the picketed horses, out in 
the full sunshine, a man lay on his back on the soft 
ground apparently asleep, his hands clasped under his 
head, his face almost hidden by a sun helmet beneath 
the brim of which protruded grotesquely a disreputable 
age-black pipe which even in sleep his teeth held firmly. 
There were amongst William Chalmers’ patients and in¬ 
timate acquaintances those who affirmed positively that 
that foul old meerschaum—treasured relic of his hos¬ 
pital days—ranked second in his affections only to the 

1 


2 


THE DESERT HEALER 


adored wife who was sitting now near his recumbent 
figure. Alert and youthful looking in spite of her grey 
hairs, she lounged comfortably against a sun warmed 
rock talking animatedly yet softly to the third member 
of the party, a well set up man of soldierly appearance 
who sprawled full length at her feet. There was a cer¬ 
tain definite resemblance between the two, a similarity of 
speech and gesture, that proclaimed a near relationship. 

Mrs. Chalmers broke off in the middle of a sentence 
to flap her gauntlet gloves at a swarm of persistent flies. 
“All the same, I think it’s perfectly disgraceful that you 
are still a bachelor, Micky,” she said, with emphatic 
cousinly candour, resuming an argument which had raged 
for the last half hour. Major Meredith grinned with 
perfect good humour. 

“Haven’t time for matrimony,” he answered lazily, 
“too busy watching our wily brothers over the Border. 
And besides,” with a provocative sidelong glance, “mar¬ 
riage is a lottery. We can’t all expect to have Bill’s luck.” 

Mrs. Chalmers wrinkled her nose at him disgustedly. 
“That’s a cliche ” she said with fine scorn, ignoring the 
implied compliment, “it merely means that you haven’t 
yet met the right woman. However—” she laughed mis¬ 
chievously—“there’s still hope for you. A year at home 
after nearly ten years of exile will probably make you 
change your mind. It’s a pity you didn’t take your leave 
sooner, there were some charming girls here last winter. 
Unfortunately this year’s sample is not recommendable, 
there is scarcely a really nice girl in the place—always 
excepting Marny Geradine, and she’s married already— 
poor child.” 


THE DESERT HEALER 


3 


“Why ‘poor child?’ ” asked the soldier, his cousin’s 
sudden change of tone seeming to call for some comment. 
“Because—” Mrs. Chalmers paused frowningly, “oh, 
well, you haven’t seen Lord Geradine or you wouldn’t 
ask,” she went on soberly, “he’s been away on a shooting 
trip since you’ve been here—and the air of Algiers has 
been consequently cleaner,” she added with a little shiver. 

Major Meredith hoisted his long limbs up into a sitting 
position. “A case of a misfit marriage?” he suggested. 

“Marriage!” echoed Mrs. Chalmers scornfully, “it 
isn’t a marriage, it’s a crime. It makes my blood boil to 
think of it. And yet I hardly know them. He’s impos¬ 
sible, and she is the shyest, most reserved young woman 
I have ever met. I’d give a great deal to be able to help 
her, she seems so lonely and there is tragedy staring at 
you out of her eyes. But of course one can’t do anything. 
She isn’t the kind of person who makes confidants. I’ve 
blundered in pretty often during my life when it hasn’t 
been my business, but I simply shouldn’t dare to speak 
to Lady Geradine of her affairs—though I am old enough 
to be her mother. Ugh! let’s talk of something less re¬ 
volting,” she said hastily, a trace of huskiness in her 
voice. And for a time she sat silent, staring absently in 
front of her with eyes that had become very wistful and 
tender. Then with a shrug and a half sigh she turned 
again eagerly to her companion. “There is a great deal 
that wants putting right in the world, Micky,” she said 
with ungrammatical decisiveness, “but I’m not going to 
spoil a perfect afternoon by moralising. It has been jolly, 
hasn’t it? I thought you would like this little valley. So 
few people seem to know of it, no special inducement to 


4 


THE DESERT HEALER 


bring them here except peace and quietness which most 
of the folk wintering in Algiers don’t seem particularly 
to hanker after. We found it years ago and have 
camped here often, a haven of refuge when life was es¬ 
pecially strenuous or perplexing. It is sad to think that 
it is our last visit and that in a few weeks we shall have 
shaken the dust of Algeria off our feet. Five years, 
Micky, five years that Bill has been marking time in this 
Back of Beyond because of my stupid lungs. But they 
are all right now, thank God, and we are off to America 
as soon as may be to investigate some new nerve treat¬ 
ment Bill is interested in. And when he has picked the 
brains of his transatlantic confreres we shall come home 
to end our days in Harley Street in an odour of sanctity 
and general stuffiness. Won’t London be simply horrid 
after years of fresh air and open spaces? So, you see, 
you only just caught us in time. If your leave had been 
delayed you would have missed us, and I did want you 
to see our Algerian home. It’s been a hectic fortnight, 
but I’ve enjoyed every minute of it, and I think we’ve 
managed to show you all the sights of Algiers and its 
immediate surroundings. But I do regret one thing—I 
wish you could have seen our Mystery-man. He is quite 
a feature of the place. An Englishman who lives like 
an Arab—you needn’t pull a face, Micky, I don’t mean 
that he has ‘gone native’ or anything horrid of that kind, 
he is much too dignified. But he lives in a sort of splen¬ 
did isolation in the loveliest villa in Mustapha, with a 
retinue like a Chief’s. And though he is tremendously 
popular with the French officers and all the important 
Sheiks who come into Algiers he pointedly avoids his 


THE DESERT HEALER 


5 


fellow countrymen. And he won’t speak to or even look 
at a woman! He wears Arab dress most of the time and 
would pass for a native anywhere. He lives for months 
together in the desert and descends on Algiers at irregu¬ 
lar intervals. One hears that he is in the town, and 
glimpses him occasionally stalking along with his head 
in the air rather like a supercilious camel, or riding like 
a hurricane through the streets in approved Arab style, 
but that is all that the English community ever see of 
him. And he has obviously heaps of money—and it’s 
a gorgeous villa. He might be such an acquisition to 
the place, but, as it is, he is merely an intriguing per¬ 
sonality who is ‘wropt in mystery,’ as old Nannie used 
to say. Needless to add that in a place like this, where 
we all discuss our neighbours, he is the subject of end¬ 
less speculation. But nobody really knows anything 
about him.” 

A faint chuckle came from behind Doctor Chalmers’ 
big helmet. “I’m sorry to contradict you, Mollie, but 
that is not strictly accurate,” he said sleepily. His wife 
sat up with a jerk. “Who knows?” she challenged. 

“Well—I do, for one,” replied Doctor Chalmers coolly. 

“You know, Bill—and you’ve never said. How like a 
man! Really, you are the most exasperating creatures 
on earth. Fancy having that pearl of information up your 
sleeve—I’m getting mixed up in my metaphors, but never 
mind—and withholding it from the partner of your joys 
and sorrows. I shouldn’t have passed it on if it was a 
confidence, you know that very well. But since you have 
admitted so much you can soothe my outraged feelings 
by imparting a little more.” 


6 


THE DESERT HEALER 


Doctor Chalmers laughed and stretched lazily. “Can’t 
be done,” he replied succinctly. 

“Why not? I wouldn’t tell a soul, and Micky is only 
a bird of passage so it can’t possibly matter what he 
hears. Don’t be tiresome, Bill, expound.” 

But the doctor shook his head. “My dear Mollie,” he 
expostulated, fingering the old pipe tenderly, “a confi¬ 
dence is a confidence and I can’t break it simply to sat¬ 
isfy your curiosity, natural though it may be. And 
hasn’t the poor devil been discussed enough? How he 
lives and what he chooses to do in the desert is, after all, 
entirely his own affair—nobody else’s business.” 

“But, Bill, one hears such queer stories—” 

“Queer stories be hanged, m’dear. A silly lot of idi¬ 
otic gossip, this place is rotten with it. Some fool of 
a busybody starts a rumour without a tithe of founda¬ 
tion to it and it’s all over the town as gospel truth the 
next day. Carew’s mode of life, his antipathy to women, 
and his obvious sympathy with the Arabs make him a 
bit peculiar. Just because the poor chap has the bad 
taste to ignore your charming sex all the women have 
got their knives into him. I bet the queer stories you 
speak of emanate from your blessed feminine tea parties. 
Trust a woman to invent a mystery—” 

“But, Bill, he is mysterious.” 

“Rubbish, Mollie. He prefers to make his friends 
amongst the French and he hates women—that’s the sum 
total of his crimes as far as I’m aware. Peculiar, if you 
like, but certainly not mysterious. And as to the last 
indictment—” the doctor laughed and winked unblush- 
ingly at Major Meredith, “—personally I call him a sen- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


7 


sible chap to mix only with his own broader minded and 
more enlightened sex— ouchl” he grunted, as his wife’s 
helmet landed with a thud on his chest. 

“Bill, you’re horrid. Men gossip just as much as 
women.” 

Doctor Chalmers returned her helmet with an ironical 
bow. “They may do, my dear,” he said with sudden 
gravity, “but in Algiers it is not the men who gossip 
about Carew. And for the short time we remain in this 
hot-bed of intrigue you will oblige me by contradicting, 
on my authority, any silly stories you may hear about 
him. He’s a friend of mine. I value his friendship, and 
I won’t have him adversely discussed in my house.” 

Mrs. Chalmers bowed her head to the unexpected 
storm she had raised. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said con¬ 
tritely, “I didn’t know he was really a friend. In all the 
years we’ve lived here you’ve hardly ever mentioned him. 
I do think men are the queerest things,” she added in a 
puzzled voice that made her companions laugh. Her 
husband rolled over and began to fill his pipe. “There 
are still a few little secrets I keep from the wife of my 
bosom,” he murmured teasingly, “but, seriously, Mollie, 
hands off Carew.” 

“Very well, dear,” she replied with surprising meek¬ 
ness. And for some time she sat silent with knitted 
brows, poking the sand absently with the handle of her 
whip. Then she spoke abruptly—“But there’s no smoke 
without fire, Bill. There must be some foundation for 
the stories that are told about him. He was divorced or 
something unpleasant of the kind, wasn’t he?” 

“He may have been,” replied the doctor indifferently, 


8 


THE DESERT HEALER 


pressing the tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe with 
a blunt thumb, “I don’t know—and I’m afraid I don’t 
care. I take people as I find them, and Gervas Carew 
is one of the whitest, cleanest men I have ever met.” 

Major Meredith looked up with a sudden start. 

“Gervas Carew,” he said quickly, “Sir Gervas Carew?” 

The doctor shrugged. “I believe so,” he said guardedly, 
“though he doesn’t seem to have any use for the title. 
He drops it here in Algeria. And if you have anything 
detrimental to say about him I’d rather not hear it,” he 
added shortly, with a sudden flicker of anger in his 
sleepy blue eyes. 

But Major Meredith was obviously not listening. 

“Gervas Carew—after all these years 1” he ejaculated, 
“so your Mystery-man, Mollie, turns out to be Gervas 
Carew. Gad, what a small place the world is! Poor old 
Gervas—of all people!” 

Mrs. Chalmers’ eyes danced with excitement. She laid 
an impatient hand on her cousin’s shoulder and shook 
him vigorously. “If you don’t say something more ex¬ 
plicit in a minute, Micky, I shall scream. It’s no good 
sitting there looking as if you had seen a ghost and mur¬ 
muring tragically ‘poor old Gervas,’ you’ve simply got 
to explain. And if Bill doesn’t want to listen he can go 
and saddle the horses. It’s time we made a move any¬ 
how.” 

Meredith turned slowly and looked at her through 
narrowing eyelids. “Give a dog a bad name, and hang 
him,” he said with a touch of contempt in his voice. 

From what you say, Mollie, Algiers appears to have 
been haaging Gervas Carew pretty thoroughly and, as 


THE DESERT HEALER 


9 


he was my best friend once, I think it is up to me to 
explain. You needn’t go, Bill,” he added hastily as the 
doctor heaved himself on to his feet with a smothered 
word of profanity. “You’re seldom wrong in a diagno¬ 
sis, old man, and you haven’t made a mistake this time. 
It’s not a long story, nor, unfortunately, an uncommon 
one. Carew and I were chums at Rugby, and until I 
got my commission and went to India. When he was 
about twenty-five, shortly after his father’s death and he 
had succeeded to the title, he married. The girl, who 
was a few years younger than himself, was the worst 
kind of Society production, artificial to her finger tips. 
I stayed with them on my first home leave and hated her 
at sight. But poor old Gervas was blindly in love. He 
worshipped the ground she walked on. She was beauti¬ 
ful, of course, one of those pale-complexioned, copper¬ 
haired women who are liable to sudden and tremendous 
passion—but Gervas hadn’t touched her. Mentally and 
morally he was miles above her. She was as incapable 
of appreciating the fineness of his character as he was 
of suspecting the falseness of hers. His love didn’t con¬ 
tent her and, though she was clever enough to hide it 
from him, she flirted shamelessly with every man who 
came to the house. She craved for adulation. Anybody 
was fair game to her. She tried it on with me before 
I’d been there half a day—but I hadn’t served five years’ 
apprenticeship in India for nothing and she ended by 
hating me as thoroughly as I hated her. Then the South 
African war broke out and I did all I could to get to 
the front but they sent me back to the Frontier. And 
Gervas, who had always wanted to be a soldier and had 


10 


THE DESERT HEALER 


had to content himself with the Yeomanry, was in the 
seventh heaven, poor devil, and took a troop out to the 
Cape, largely composed of men off his own estate. He 
was invalided back to England after nine months to find 
that his wife had consoled herself in his absence with 
an Austrian Count, of sorts, and had cleared out with 
the blighter, leaving a delicate baby behind her. The 
child died the night Gervas reached home. I heard what 
happened from a mutual friend. For a few weeks he 
was to all intents and purposes out of his mind. He was 
in a very weak state from his wound, and the double 
shock of his wife’s faithlessness and the baby’s death— 
he was devoted to the little chap—was too much for him. 
Then he took up life again, but he was utterly changed. 
He divorced the woman that she might marry the man 
she had gone off with and six months afterwards he 
disappeared. 

“That’s ten or twelve years ago and I’ve never been 
able to get into communication with him since. That’s 
Gervas Carew’s story, Mollie. 

“I can’t give any explanation of his avoidance of 
English people except that he was always a sensitive 
sort of chap. But I think that his present attitude 
towards women, at any rate, is understandable. There 
was one woman in the world for him—and she let him 
down.” 

There was a long silence after the soldier stopped 
speaking. Mrs. Chalmers sat very subdued, blinking 
away the tears that had risen in her eyes. 

“I wish I’d known before, Micky. I feel a beast,” she 
said at last with regretful fervour. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


11 


“You might well,” growled her husband unsympa¬ 
thetically, and stalked away to the horses. 

Major Meredith prepared to follow, but lingered for 
a moment beside his cousin who had also risen to her 
feet. 

“I need hardly add that what I’ve told you is entirely 
between ourselves, Mollie. I only wanted to put Carew 
right with you and Bill. What the rest of Algiers chooses 
to think doesn’t matter a tinker’s curse. I wish I could 
have seen the poor old chap, but as I’m off tomorrow 
that is hardly probable. Still, I’ve located him, which is 
more than I ever expected to do.” 

Mrs. Chalmers followed him thoughtfully to the clump 
of olive trees where the doctor with recovered good tem¬ 
per was busily saddling the horses. 

They mounted and moved off leisurely down the steep 
side of the hill, picking a careful way between rocks and 
scrub and cactus bushes until they reached a narrow 
track winding in and out at the foot of the mountain a 
few feet above the bed of the tiny ravine that separated 
it from the adjoining range. 

The track was wide enough only for two to ride 
abreast and the doctor forged ahead leaving his wife to 
follow with her cousin. 

Mrs. Chalmers made no further reference to the story 
she had heard, guessing that Meredith would not care to 
speak of it again, but chatted instead of the neeighbour- 
hood through which they were passing. 

“These hills are a maze,” she explained with a sweep¬ 
ing gesture of her whip that effectually upset the hitherto 


12 


THE DESERT HEALER 


irreproachable behaviour of the horse she was riding. 
She reined him back with difficulty. 

“I forgot I mustn’t do that. Captain Andre told me 
he couldn’t bear to have a whip whiffled about his ears,” 
she said laughingly. “Some of the gorges are wider than 
this, perfect camping grounds,” she continued, after she 
had soothed her mount’s ruffled sensibilities. “Very often 
a Sheik will camp here on his way to Algiers. Extraor¬ 
dinarily interesting they are, especially the ones who 
come from the far south—the wildest creatures, with 
hordes of fierce retainers who look as if they would think 
nothing of murdering one just for the sheer fun of it. 
But they are always very nice to us—they like the Eng¬ 
lish. I am ashamed to say I have learned very little 
Arabic but when we meet them I smile and say ‘Ang- 
laise’ and they get quite excited and salaam and grin and 
chatter like magpies. Then, again, we come here and 
may ride for miles and never see a soul for days to¬ 
gether.” 

“That is what one thinks on the Frontier but the beg¬ 
gars are there all the time, right enough,” said Meredith 
with a quick smile. “You will be riding over a bit of 
country that you wouldn’t think could afford cover for 
a cat and ping goes a bullet past your head. If they 
weren’t such thundering bad shots I, for one, should 
have been a goner years ago.” He laughed light- 
heartedly, and Mrs. Chalmers glanced at him curiously, 
marvelling, as she had marvelled frequently in the last 
fortnight, at the hazardous life that is some men's por¬ 
tion and the fatalistic indifference it usually engenders. 
During his short visit she had listened with wonder and 


THE DESERT HEALER 


13 


amazement to her cousin’s reluctant account of his work 
on the Border. 

To Meredith it was the Great Game. Now, quite sud¬ 
denly, she wondered what it would mean to the woman 
he might make his wife. 

“I don’t believe, after all, Micky, that men like you 
ought to marry,” she said pensively. Meredith laughed 
at the patently regretful tone of her voice, for her match¬ 
making proclivities were notorious. 

“I’m quite sure of it,” he replied promptly, and un¬ 
willingly Mrs. Chalmers was obliged to laugh with him. 

But further conversation became for the time impos¬ 
sible. The rough track they were following grew nar¬ 
rower and less perceptible until it suddenly vanished 
altogether and the horses slithered and slipped down to 
the rocky bed of the dry watercourse at the bottom of 
the defile. The pass was bearing steadily towards the 
south and Doctor Chalmers who was some little distance 
ahead of them had already disappeared from sight be¬ 
hind a jutting angle of rock where the hill curved ab¬ 
ruptly. Following in single file they reached the sharp 
bend and rounding it close under the stark cliff face, 
emerged into a wider, less rugged valley that stretched 
on the one hand far up into the mountains and on the 
other led to open country. A quarter of a mile away, 
at the entrance of the valley, Doctor Chalmers was 
waiting for them. Scrambling out of the river bed they 
spurred their horses, racing to join him, and as they 
neared he turned in the saddle beckoning vigorously. 
“You’re in luck, Micky,” he shouted, “there’s your man.” 
And following his pointing finger they saw a small party 


14 


THE DESERT HEALER 


of horsemen galloping towards the mountains. The 
leader, who was riding slightly in advance of his escort, 
was distinguished from his white-clad followers by an 
embroidered blue doth burnous that billowed round him 
in swelling folds. With a little thrill of excitement Mrs. 
Chalmers glanced quickly at her cousin, and decided for 
the second time that day that men were queer creatures. 
They never did what one expected them to do. A little 
more than half-an-hour ago Micky had expressed a great 
wish to meet again the friend of his youth. The wish 
unexpectedly fulfilled, it was to be supposed that his in¬ 
ward gratification would take some outward and visible 
form. He sat instead motionless on his fretting horse, 
scowling at the approaching horsemen, his underlip 
sucked in beneath his trim brown moustache, in very 
obvious hesitation. 

It was Doctor Chalmers who rode forward and waved 
his hand with a welcoming shout. And for a moment it 
seemed as if his greeting was going to pass unrecognised. 
The horsemen were nearly abreast of them, riding at a 
tremendous pace, another moment they would have swept 
past. Then, with a powerful jerk that sent the bright 
bay straight up into the air spinning high on his hind 
legs, the leader checked his mount suddenly. It was a 
common trick among the Arabs which Mrs. Chalmers had 
often witnessed, but she never watched it without a 
quickening heartbeat, and she gave a little sigh of relief 
now as the horse came down without the ugly backward 
tremble she had seen once and dreaded to see again. She 
was conscious of a feeling of extreme embarrassment at 
the near presence of the man whose mysterious personal- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


15 


ity she had discussed freely with her circle of acquaint¬ 
ances during the last five years, but who now appeared to 
her in a new and totally different light. Her warm im¬ 
pulsive heart had been touched by Micky Meredith's 
story and a hot wave of discomfort passed over her as 
she recollected the idle gossip she had both countenanced 
and participated in. She determined to delay the inevit¬ 
able meeting with the much criticised Mystery-man until 
the first greeting and explanations between the two old 
friends were over. Leaving Meredith to go alone, she 
lingered behind under pretext of re-arranging her habit, 
and for some minutes she bent over her perfectly ad¬ 
justed safety skirt pulling and patting it into further 
order while her fidgety horse wheeled and backed impa¬ 
tiently at the forced stand. Then she rode forward with 
unusual diffidence to join the three men who, dismounted, 
were deep in conversation. They drew apart at her com¬ 
ing and Meredith effected the necessary introduction. 

In response to Mrs. Chalmers' murmured greeting the 
tall picturesque-looking man who had turned almost 
reluctantly towards her replied briefly and bowed with 
grave, unsmiling aloofness that seemed consistent with 
the Arab robes he wore so naturally. She had a swift 
glimpse of a lean brown clean-shaven face, of a pair of 
dark blue sombre eyes that did not quite meet her own, 
and then her husband’s genial voice broke the threaten¬ 
ing silence. 

“Sir Gervas is camping in the neighborhood, Mollie. 
He wants Micky to wait over until the later train. We 
shall have to push on as I promised to be in Algiers early 
this evening,"- he explained, preparing to remount. “Your 


16 


THE DESERT HEALER 


train leaves Blidah at eleven, Micky,” he added. “And, 
Carew, the horse is Andre’s. See that he gets back all 
right to the cavalry barracks, will you? Ready, Mollie? 
Then take hold of that beast of yours. We shall have to 
run for it.” 

As the Doctor and his wife cantered off, Meredith 
looked after their retreating figures with a gleam of 
amusement in his eyes. Bill’s diplomacy had been wor¬ 
thy of a greater cause. Then he turned to his companion. 

“That’s a dam’ good fellow,” he said emphatically, 
“one in a billion.” 

But the silent man beside him did not at the moment 
seem inclined to discuss Doctor Chalmers’ merits. 

Nodding briefly he signed to his servants to bring up 
the spirited bay that had been removed from the proxim¬ 
ity of the other horses. 

And as they rode along together Meredith tried in vain 
to trace in this grave, taciturn individual some resemb¬ 
lance to the gay, happy-go-lucky Gervas Carew of long 
ago. He wondered, if alone, he would have even known 
him. Carew had apparently recognised him at once, but 
the recognition was easy, for the passing years had made 
no great alteration in him; while to Meredith the face of 
his old friend had become the face of a stranger, hardened, 
remoulded almost, until even the contour seemed differ¬ 
ent. Other changes too became gradually evident. The 
restless impatience that Meredith remembered had given 
place to a calm imperturbability that was more oriental 
than occidental. There was a dignity and stateliness in 
his bearing that contrasted forcibly with his former boy¬ 
ish impulsiveness. Of the old Gervas Carew there was 


THE DESERT HEALER 


17 


clearly nothing left, and the new Gervas seemed reluc¬ 
tant to reveal himself. The threads, too, of the early 
acquaintance, broken for so long, were curiously difficult 
to pick up but Micky Meredith, trained to waiting, was 
content to let the matter take its course. Enough that a 
desire had been shown for his company, the rest would 
follow. 

Once only during the half-hour ride did Carew open 
his mouth. He turned and looked critically at Meredith’s 
mount. “Shall we let them out?” he said slowly, with a 
certain hesitation in his voice as if his mother-tongue 
came unnaturally. “Andre’s horses have a reputation.” 

And as they raced neck and neck towards the north 
over the broken country that bordered the foothills they 
were skirting, Meredith found a certain measure of satis¬ 
faction in the fact that one interest, at least, had survived 
the general upheaval. Carew had always been a horse¬ 
man and a lover of horses. More than ever did he seem 
so now. And as the soldier looked at the magnificient 
creature his companion was riding, and, glancing behind 
him, found the escort thundering close at their heels, he 
decided that it was not only the courteous cavalry captain 
at Blidah whose stud must have a reputation in the coun¬ 
try. It was one bond of sympathy remaining, he re¬ 
flected, and sat down to ride as he had rarely ridden in 
his life. 

His borrowed horse responded gallantly to the effort 
demanded of him, but the pace was punishing and the 
animal’s satiny neck grew dark and seamed with sweat 
as he strained to keep up with the bay that showed no 
sign of distress and seemed to be rather checked than 


18 


THE DESERT HEALER 


urged by his rider. And with the perspiration pouring 
down his own face Meredith was not sorry when a sud¬ 
den curve in the hillside revealed a deserted fruit farm 
with Carew’s camp scattered amongst the orange trees. 

The big double tent of the owner was pitched at some 
distance from those of its followers, lying in an open 
clearing where once the farm buildings must have stood. 
And all about were horses and camels, tethered or wan¬ 
dering at will, and a small army of Arabs languidly ful¬ 
filling the various duties of the camp or squatting idly on 
their heels engaged in endless argument. 

But the return of the master roused his retainers to 
sudden and spontaneous activity, and Meredith noted 
with a smile of approval the evident signs of discipline 
and authority. Waiting grooms who had been lounging 
near the big tent sprang to the horses’ heads and the 
soldier slid out of the saddle with a grunt of relief and 
mopped his forehead with a gaudy silk handkerchief. “Do 
you usually ride at that pace?” he enquired, laughing. 

Carew turned from fondling the big bay that was 
nozzling him affectionately. “Pretty usually,” he an¬ 
swered, “it’s a bad habit one catches in the desert. But 
I’ve always wanted to try Suliman against that grey of 
Andre’s. He had him beaten from the start,” he added 
with a faint smile, “come have a drink.” And he led the 
way under the lance-propped awning into the cool dim¬ 
ness of the tent. 

Meredith glanced about with interest. The costly but 
sparse furnishings were almost entirely of the country; 
a small camp table and a solitary deck chair, the sole 
concessions to European taste, looked incongruous in 


THE DESERT HEALER 


19 


conjunction with the low inlaid stools and gay brocaded 
silk mats that were purely Arab. A wide divan, heaped 
with heavy cushions and covered with a couple of leopard 
skins, stood in the centre of the room. Looped back 
curtains of gold-embroidered silk hung before the entrance 
to the sleeping apartment. 

At first sight Meredith thought the tent empty. But 
as his eyes grew accustomed to the soft light he saw, in a 
far corner, the slender figure of a child sitting on the 
ground swaying gently to and fro, his handsome little 
face upturned in rapt devotion as he crooned softly to 
himself while the beads of a long rosary slipped through 
h's small brown fingers. The thick rugs on the floor 
deadened the sound of their footsteps and for a moment 
the entrance of the two men passed unnoticed. Then 
Carew moved and his foot struck sharply against a small 
brass bowl that had fallen from a nearby stool. At the 
sound the lad stopped swaying and sat rigid as if listen¬ 
ing intently, his face turned eagerly towards them. Then 
with a glad cry he tossed the rosary away and scrambling 
to his feet came flying across the tent with outstretched 
hands. A thick cushion that in its bright-hued covering 
appeared perfectly obvious against the dark rug lay di¬ 
rectly in his path but he blundered straight into it and fell 
headlong before Carew could catch him. And as Mere¬ 
dith watched the big man bending over the little white- 
clad figure and saw the stern lines of his face change into 
a wonderful tenderness, and heard the sudden gentleness 
of his voice as he murmured in soft quick Arabic, he 
recollected with a feeling of acute dismay the “queer 
stories” that Mollie Chalmers had referred to. Was this, 


20 


THE DESERT HEALER 


then, the solution of Carew’s protracted sojourns in the 
desert? To the Anglo-Indian with his deep-rooted prej¬ 
udices the supposition was repulsive. It was to him 
little short of a crime. And yet was there not perhaps an 
excuse? Sudden pity contended with repulsion as he 
remembered Carew’s devotion to his tiny son, and the 
tragedy that had robbed him of his child. Had the ar¬ 
dent desire for parenthood that had formerly been so 
strong in him risen even against racial restrictions and 
the misogyny with which he was now accredited? 

Meredith was relieved when his disturbing thoughts 
were interrupted. The boy was on his feet again, talking 
excitedly, but Carew silenced him with a hand on his 
shoulder. 

“There is a guest, Saba,” he said in French, “salute the 
English lord, and go bid Hosein hasten with the cooling 
drink.” 

Suddenly shy the boy moved forward, bending his sup¬ 
ple little figure in a deep salaam. Then drawing himself 
erect, he lifted his face to Meredith’s with a curiously 
uncertain movement. And looking down into the beauti¬ 
ful dark eyes raised to his the soldier saw the reason for 
that hasty tumble and an involuntary exclamation es¬ 
caped him. He looked enquiringly at his host. 

Carew nodded. “Yes, he’s blind,” he said in English, 
“but you needn’t pity him. He has never known any¬ 
thing different and he is a thoroughly happy little imp.” 
And drawing the boy to him with a quick caress he set 
him with his face towards the door and watched him 
grope his way from the tent. 

Then, pulling forward the deck chair, he placed cig- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


21 


arettes beside his guest. From behind a cloud of smoke 
Meredith spoke with obvious constraint. “I’m awfully 
sorry—” he began awkwardly, and something in his voice 
made Carew turn quickly to look at him. For a moment 
his sombre eyes rested on the soldier’s embarrassed face, 
then he shook his head with a grave smile that had in it 
a trace of bitterness. 

“It’s not what you think,” he said evenly, “though I 
admit the thought is natural. He is not mine—some¬ 
times I wish to God he were. He’s only a waif picked 
up in the desert, five or six hundred miles away in the 
south, there. I found him six years ago, when I was 
helping to clean up an Arab raid, lying across his dead 
mother’s body and whimpering like a hungry kitten. He 
wasn’t more than a year old. I’ve had him ever since. I 
don’t think I could get on without the little chap now. 
He’s an interest, and fills up my time when I’m not other¬ 
wise occupied—fills it pretty completely, too, for he is 
as sharp as a needle and, when the mood takes him, as 
keen on mischief as any boy with the full use of his eyes. 
But tell me about yourself. Are you still on the 
Frontier?” 

And Meredith, keenly amrious to renew the old in¬ 
timacy, let himself be drawn and talked of his life on 
the Indiau Border as he had never talked of it before. 
Baldly and jerkily at first and then with increasing ease 
he spoke of the years of arduous work that had claimed 
his whole time and thought; of perilous journeys and 
months passed in disguise amongst the savage northern 
tribes, of hairbreadth escapes and strange experiences, 
of periods of so-called leave which to the man intent on 


22 


THE DESERT HEALER 


his job and absorbed in his occupation had only meant 
work in another form. 

For an hour or more his quiet voice went on until the 
lengthening shadows deepened into blackness and the 
tent grew dark and obscure, until Carew, sitting Arab 
fashion on the divan, was almost invisible and only the 
glowing end of his cigarette revealed his presence. And 
Meredith—the first plunge made—found him curiously 
easy to talk to, curiously knowledgeable too. From one 
or two comrrents he let fall Meredith was inclined to 
believe that the Watching Game was no new one to him 
and the knowledge made his own tale less difficult to tell. 

He stopped at last and groped for the matches on the 
stool beside him. “That about let’s me out,” he said, as 
he lit a cigarette. Carew rose and going to the tent door 
clapped his hands. “You’re doing a big work, Micky,” 
he said as he came slowly through the gloom. “You’ll 
end on the Indian Council if you don’t take care,” he 
added with almost the old bantering note in his voice. 

“If I don’t end with a bullet through my head, which 
is much more probable,” replied Meredith with a quick 
laugh, blinking at the lighted lamps that were being 
brought into the tent. 

During the dinner that followed the conversation was 
mainly of Algeria. But though Carew discussed the 
country and its conditions, its people and the sport it 
afforded, of his own life there he said nothing. Neither 
did he refer to the old days when their friendship had 
meant so much to each. The past was evidently a sealed 
book that he had no intention of reopening. A tentative 
remark hazarded by Meredith met with no response and 


THE DESERT HEALER 


23 


it was not until later when they were sitting out in the 
darkness under the awning that the soldier put the ques¬ 
tion he had been trying to ask all evening. They had 
sat for some time in silence, smoking, looking across the 
moonlit plain, listening to the subdued noises of the 
camp behind them and to the faint rhythmical thump of 
a tom-tom far off amongst the orange trees. A tiny 
breeze drifting, perfume laden, across their faces made 
Meredith think suddenly of the scented gardens of Kash- 
mere. He twisted in his chair to get a better view of the 
starry heavens, and blurted out his question. 

“Why didn’t you write, old man?” 

For a long time there was no answer and he mentally 
kicked himself for a blundering fool. Then Carew’s 
deep voice, deeper even than usual, came out of the 
darkness. “I couldn’t. I tried once—but there seemed 
nothing to say. I hoped you would understand.” 

Meredith moved uncomfortably. “I was—damned 
sorry,” he muttered gruffly. Carew lit a fresh cigarette 
slowly. 

“You needn’t waste any sympathy on me, Micky,” he 
said with a sudden hard laugh. “I was a fool once—but 
I learnt my lesson—thoroughly.” There was another 
long silence. Then Meredith asked abruptly: “Why Al¬ 
geria?” 

Carew shrugged. “I had to go somewhere. The house 
—its associations were a hell I wasn’t strong enough to 
stand. So I played the coward’s part and ran away. 
My people used to winter in Algiers when I was a boy. 
I liked the country. It seemed the natural place to come 
to, somehow.” He paused. When he spoke again it was 


24 


THE DESERT HEALER 


in a voice that was new to Meredith. “It’s a wonderful 
place, the desert, Micky,” he said dreamily, “it gets you 
in the end—if you go far enough, and stay long enough. 
It’s got me all right. I don’t suppose I shall ever leave it 
now. I come into Algiers sometimes, but never for very 
long. Always I go back to it. It holds me as nothing 
else has ever held me. The mystery of it, the charm of 
it—always new, never the same, changing from day to 
day. And its moods, my God, Micky, its moods! The 
peace of heaven one moment and the fury of hell let 
loose the next. Cruel but beautiful, pitiless but fasci¬ 
nating. And, somehow, one forgets the cruelty and only 
the beauty remains—the beauty of its wonderful soli¬ 
tudes, its marvellous emptiness.” 

“And being there—what do you do?” Meredith had 
no wish to appear inquisitive but for the last few min¬ 
utes he had been trying, unsuccessfully, to fit his old 
friend into the new setting that seemed so incongruous. 
Gervas and solitude! To Meredith, remembering the 
perpetual house parties at Royal Carew, the crowds of 
pleasure-seeking, sport-loving men and women with whom 
the genial host of those old days had surrounded him¬ 
self, it appeared a thing incredible. And again he asked 
with growing perplexity: “What do you do?” and won¬ 
dered if Carew would consign him to the devil. But the 
retort he half expected did not ensue. “What do I do?” 
repeated Carew slowly. “That was the question I asked 
myself when I came to Algeria, when I seemed to have 
come to the end of everything—‘what shall I do.’ My 
first trip into the desert settled that quickly enough. I 
had always been interested in the Arabs—I spoke the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


25 


language as early as I spoke English—but I only knew 
the Arabs of the towns. So I went down into the south 
to see the real life of the desert. I met some of the old 
Sheiks who used to come into Algiers when I was a 
boy and who still remembered my father. They made 
it easy for me and passed me on into districts where 
otherwise I could never have penetrated, and I saw more 
than I had ever hoped to see. I started my wanderings 
with no higher motive than curiosity—and a desire to 
get away from my own thoughts. It had never occurred 
to me that up till then I had led an utterly purposeless 
life, that not a soul in the world was the better for my 
being in it. But out there in the desert the crying need 
I found forced me to think, for the reckless waste of 
life and the ghastly unnecessary suffering I saw appalled 
me. I knew that one man alone could not do much—but 
he could do something. It didn’t take me long to make 
up my mind. The old life was over. I wanted a new 
life that wouldn’t give me time to think, that would give 
me opportunity to help the people I had professed to be 
interested in. I went to Paris and studied medicine, 
specializing in surgery, and took my degree. After¬ 
wards I put in six months with a man in Switzerland, 
a brute—but a wizard with the knife, and then came 
back to Algeria. That’s what I do, Micky.” 

Meredith drew a deep breath. “And a dam’ fine thing, 
too,” he said heartily. And reaching out a long arm he 
gripped the other’s shoulder for a moment with a pres¬ 
sure that was painful. “So that’s what you do in the 
desert when you vanish for months at a time, is it?” he 
said slowly, with a curious expression of relief in his 


26 


THE DESERT HEALER 


voice and a feeling of self-disgust as he thought of the 
suspicions that had been forced upon him earlier in the 
evening. 

“It isn’t all plain sailing, I suppose?” he suggested. 

“Far from it,” replied Carew, “but it depends on the 
district, of course. Usually the beggars are grateful 
enough and I go pretty much where I please. But they 
are a naturally suspicious people and there are some 
places I can’t get into at any price. They think my work 
is a pretext and that I am a spy of the Government.” 

* “And are you?” 

“Officially, no. But sometimes I see and hear things 
I think the Government should know—it’s a difficult 
country to administer—and at times the Government 
make use of my knowledge. I have acted as intermedi¬ 
ary more than once in negotiations with some of the out¬ 
lying tribes where it would be impossible to send a regu¬ 
larly accredited Agent without a regiment to back him 
up—and that usually ends in fighting which the Govern¬ 
ment try to avoid. There’s unrest enough in the south 
without stirring up any more trouble,” he added, turning 
to speak to a tall, saturnine-looking Arab who had sud¬ 
denly approached with a soft murmur of apology. 

The shrill sequel of a stallion and the trampling of 
hoofs made Meredith realise the reason for the interrup¬ 
tion. 

“Time up?” he said regretfully, following Carew into 
the tent. “By jove, it’s late I” he added, glancing at his 
watch, “can we get into Blidah by eleven?” 

“Not by the way the Chalmers brought you,” replied 
Carew with a faint smile, buckling the clasp of the heavy 


THE DESERT HEALER 


27 


burnous his servant folded about his shoulders. The 
same escort that had ridden with him earlier in the day 
was waiting but he dismissed them and alone the two 
men rode out into the moonlit night. For a time they 
did not speak. Carew had apparently reached the limit 
of his confidences and Meredith was in no mood to break 
the silence. It had been a curious meeting, a curious 
renewal of an old friendship, but the soldier was left 
with an uncomfortable feeling of doubt whether it would 
not have been kinder if no reminder of his early life 
had been brought to disturb the peace that, seemingly, 
his old friend had found in the desert. His presence 
must have vividly awakened in Carew memories of the 
past. For how much did the past still count with him? 
Did he never regret the fine old property in England 
where generations of Carews had lived since the days 
of the Virgin Queen whose visit during a royal progress 
had given the house its name? Meredith had many pleas¬ 
ant recollections of Royal Carew and the thought of the 
stately house he had known so full of life and happiness 
standing now empty and forlorn in the midst of its beau¬ 
tiful park gave him a feeling of sadness. 

“Will you never go back, Gervas?” he asked involun¬ 
tarily. 

“Go back—where?” 

“To Royal Carew.” 

Carew shook his head. “I told you I had done with 
the old life,” he said rather wearily. “Royal Carew be¬ 
longs to the past—and the past is dead. And I couldn’t 
very well go back now, if I wanted to. I let my cousin 
have the place. He is my heir, it would have come to 


28 


THE DESERT HEALER 


him eventually. It was better he should go there while 
he was still young enough to enjoy it. It’s a damned 
poor game waiting for dead men’s shoes,” he added with 
a short laugh. 

They were galloping now over undulating country 
where the crests of the gently swelling hillocks were 
almost as light as day and the tiny intervening valleys 
lay like pools of dark, still water. As they reached the 
summit of a rather larger hill than they had yet en¬ 
countered, Carew slackened speed with a word of warn¬ 
ing. 

“There is a deserted village in the valley,” he said, 
pointing down into the darkness, “be careful how you 
go, it’s a confusing place at night. And if anything 
happens—sit tight and leave the talking to me,” he added 
significantly. And as he spurred the bay a half length 
in advance Meredith saw his hand go to the silk shawl 
that was swathed about his waist. A deserted village— 
but Carew was reaching for his revolver. With a grin 
Meredith took a firmer grip of Captain Andre’s grey. 
He had passed through similar deserted villages in India. 

“Heave ahead,” he said cheerily, and followed his 
companion closely down the long slope. 

The valley was shallower than others they had t^v- 
ersed and here and there a shaft of moonlight ctu 
through the murky gloom. They were on the village 
before Meredith realised its nearness, and as they 
threaded the empty streets at a slow canter he looked 
keenly about him with a slight feeling of pleasurable 
excitement. But no sound broke the stillness and no 
furtive figures lurking among the ruined huts appeared 


THE DESERT HEALER 


29 


to justify Carew’s warning. Then the grey stumbled 
badly on a heap of rubble lying across the road and until 
they were clear of the village he gave his whole atten¬ 
tion to his borrowed horse. But when they were speed¬ 
ing across the plain once more with the lights of Blidah 
faint in the distance he turned to Carew with a look of 
enquiry. “What might have happened?” he asked curi¬ 
ously. 

“Anything—murder, probably, if you had been alone.” 

Meredith chuckled at the casual tone. “Healthy spot 
for a midnight ride!” 

“It saves three miles,” replied Carew calmly. 

And Meredith flung back his head and laughed like 
a boy. 


CHAPTER II 


For a few moments after the train that was carry¬ 
ing Major Meredith back to Algiers had pulled jerkily 
out of the station, Carew lingered on the deserted ill-lit 
platform. Then, acknowledging with a curt nod the half- 
caste stationmaster’s obsequious greeting, he strode lei¬ 
surely to where the horses were waiting in the care of 
a Kabyle lad he had picked out from among the hetero¬ 
geneous collection of loafers lounging before the station 
entrance. He signed to the boy to follow him with Cap¬ 
tain Andre’s horse and trotted Suliman slowly towards 
the town. Entering by the Es-Sebt Gate he turned in 
the direction of the cavalry barracks. Despite the late 
hour the numberless cafes with their flaring gas lamps and 
tawdry garishness were at their busiest. The pavements 
were thronged, a ceaseless stream of cosmopolitan hu¬ 
manity; slow-moving, dignified Arabs, servile and furtive¬ 
eyed Jews meekly giving place to all who elbowed them, 
and eager, chattering Frenchmen—all jostling, indiscrim¬ 
inately. Even the roadway was invaded, and bands of 
Zouaves with interlocked arms reeled along regardless 
of the traffic, roaring out the latest musical song with 
unmelodious vigour and shouting questionable jibes at 
the passers by. 

Tonight Blidah seemed to be en fete, noisier and more 
30 


THE DESERT HEALER 


31 


blatant than usual. And to Carew, fresh from nearly 
a year in the desert, the scene was distasteful. It was 
not new to him, years spent in Algeria had familiarised 
him with the nightly aspect of the garrison towns, and 
he was in no mood to be either interested or amused by 
what he saw. He had no- love for Blidah at the best of 
times and he had already been there once before that day. 

At the cavalry barracks he handed over Captain 
Andre’s grey to the sleepy groom who was waiting and, 
dismissing the Kabyle lad, turned with a sigh of relief 
in the direction of the Bab-el-Rabah. Passing through 
the gateway he headed towards the east, intending to re¬ 
turn by the same route by which he had brought Major 
Meredith. Once clear of the town Suliman broke of 
his own accord into the long, swinging gallop to which 
he was accustomed and for a time Carew let him take 
his own pace. But soon he checked him, drawing him 
into a reluctant walk. And as the bay sidled and reared, 
snorting impatiently, his master bent forward in the sad¬ 
dle and ran his hand caressingly over the glossy arched 
neck. “Gently, gently, core of mye heart,” he murmured 
in the language that came more readily to his lips than 
his own, “there is no need for haste. Tomorrow is also 
a day.” And pacing slowly forward through the quiet 
night he set himself at last to face the torturing recol¬ 
lections of the past that for years he had put resolutely 
out of his mind but which had been cruelly awakened 
by the wholly unexpected advent of his old friend. In¬ 
scrutable as the Arabs amongst whom he lived, he ex¬ 
hibited no outward sign of agitation, but under the 
passivity that had become second nature with him there 


32 


THE DESERT HEALER 


was raging a bitter storm of anger and revolt against 
fate that had thrown Micky Meredith across his path 
to shatter the hard-won peace that had come to him in 
the desert. Meredith was bound up with all he wished 
to forget, was the living reminder of the home and hap¬ 
piness he had lost. His coming had reopened the wound 
that Carew had thought healed forever. Memories, like 
stabs of actual pain, crowded in upon him. The old 
struggle, the old bitterness he had conquered once was 
overwhelming him again, shaking him to the very depths 
of his being. The past he had resolved to forget rose 
up anew with terrible distinctness. Royal Carew—and 
the woman he had loved! With the sweat of agony 
thick on his forehead he lived again through the horror 
of that ghastly homecoming. He saw again, clearly as 
though they stood before him, the pitying, terrified faces 
of the old servants from whom he learned the sordid 
story of his betrayal. He passed once more through the 
hours of anguish when he had knelt in dumb, helpless 
misery beside the tiny cot in the luxurious nursery and 
watched the death struggle of the child whom, worse than 
motherless, he loved so passionately. The dark waters 
of despair had closed over his head that night. Weak 
from the terrible wound that had brought him back to 
England, crushed by the double tragedy, he had longed 
and prayed for death. And when he had at last found 
courage to go forward with what remained to him of 
life, it was as a changed man, embittered out of any 
semblance to his former self. He had divorced his wife 
that she might marry the man for whom she had left 
him, and with grim justice, because she had been the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


33 


mother of his son, he had settled upon her an adequate 
fortune. But for the woman herself he had no feeling 
left but loathing and contempt. She had deceived him, 
lied to him. She had destroyed his faith, his trust. She 
had opened his eyes at last to the unworthiness that had 
been patent to all but the husband who worshipped her. 
She had killed his love—and with it had died esteem 
and belief in the sex she represented. With her his ideal 
of womanhood, pinnacled high with chivalrous regard, 
had shattered into nothingness. Because of her he had 
become the cynical misogynist he was, seeing in all 
women the one woman whose falseness had poisoned his 
life. The thought of her stirred him now to nothing but 
a sense of cold disgust. 

But the memory of the little son who had died was 
a living force within him. It had gone with him through 
all the years of loneliness and disillusion, a grief as bit¬ 
ter now as on that first night of his bereavement. Not 
for the woman, but for the child his starved heart still 
yearned with passionate intensity. The tiny face was 
present with him always, even yet he could remember the 
clinging touch of the fragile baby fingers closing convul¬ 
sively on his in that last moment of terrible struggle. It 
was to try and deaden the pain of memory, to ease the 
burden of his solitude, that he had kept the little waif 
of the desert. And the blind boy in his helplessness and 
dependence had in some measure filled the blank in his 
life. But tonight the remembrance of his loss was heavy 
upon him. Even with the child Meredith was connected, 
for his visit to Royal Carew had been made a few months 
after the birth of the heir who had been born to such 


34 


THE DESERT HEALER 


high hopes. Together the two men had discussed in all 
solemnity the probable career of the sleepy scrap of pink 
humanity who at that time had shown no sign of the 
delicacy which had developed later. 

And Royal Carew! For the first time in years he let 
his thoughts turn to the beautiful property he had vol¬ 
untarily surrendered and a wave of intense home sick¬ 
ness passed over him. He crushed it down with a feel¬ 
ing of contempt for his own weakness. Once it had 
seemed to him the fairest place on God’s earth, he had 
loved every stick and stone of it. He loved it still, but 
with his love was the remembrance of bitter pain that 
made him shrink from ever seeing it again. Childless, 
it was for him purposeless. If the child had lived—but 
the child was dead, and things were better as they were. 
Regrets were useless. There was nothing to be gaired 
by harking back to what might have been. Carew’s lips 
tightened and he forced his mind into another channel 
of thought. After all, it had been no fault of Meredith’s. 
Carew uad guessed the reason of the soldier’s restrained 
manner at the moment of meeting and the knowledge 
had added warmth to his own greeting. Pride had stirred 
him, that and a vague idea of testing his own command 
over himself. Naturally long-sighted he had seen and 
known Meredith even before Doctor Chalmers had hailed 
him. Almost he had been tempted to pass by with no 
sign of recognition. Then he had cursed himself for r 
coward and had reined in Suliman with that sudden jerk 
that had made Mrs. Chalmers’ heart stand still. And 
now was he glad or sorry for Meredith’s coming? It 
was a question that in his present mood he found himself 


THE DESERT HEALER 


35 


unable to answer. He had no wish to further analyse 
his feelings. He had become unaccustomed to self-con- 
sideration. For once he had relaxed the rigid control 
he exercised over his own thoughts—and once was 
enough. During the years of strenuous work in the 
desert he had succeeded in suppressing self, and in that 
work he would endeavour to regain the contentment that 
was all he had to hope for. 

With a powerful effort of will he put away all thoughts 
of Meredith and the memories he had awakened and, 
touching Suliman with his heel, concentrated on the re¬ 
sults of the difficult mission from which he was now 
returning to Algiers. 

It had been a delicate business, attended with consid¬ 
erable danger that had not disturbed him, and subtle 
oriental intrigue, in dealing with which Hosein’s help 
had been invaluable. The man had been Carew’s body- 
servant and faithful companion for all the years he had 
lived in Algeria. The son of his father’s old dragoman, 
Carew remembered him as a singularly intelligent urchin, 
a year or two older than himself, employed about the 
villa on Mustapha Superieur where the winters of his 
own boyhood had been spent, and he had sought him out 
on his first return to the country. He had never re¬ 
gretted it. Devoted and singleminded in his service the 
Arab had been friend as well as servant and a loyal co- 
operator in Carew’s chosen work. A wanderer by in¬ 
stinct, it was not only in Algeria that Hosein had trav¬ 
elled and the green band of the Mecca pilgrim that he 
wore gave him a prestige which had carried his master 
and himself through some sufficiently awkward situa- 


36 


THE DESERT HEALER 


tions. Carew had owed his life to him not once nor 
twice, and he knew that but for Hosein’s watchfulness 
he would never have returned alive from this last dan¬ 
gerous undertaking. The report he was carrying back 
to the Governor in Algiers was due as much to Hosein 
as to himself. And the Arab should not be the loser if 
he could help it, he thought with a sudden rare smile. 

Immersed in his thoughts he had taken little notice of 
his surroundings and had not realised how far he had 
come on his homeward journey. A whistling snort from 
Suliman and a sudden wild swerve that would have 
unseated a less practised horseman brought him back 
abruptly to the immediate present, and looking round 
sharply he saw that they had arrived at the outskirts of 
the deserted village. Dragging his horse to a standstill 
he looked keenly about him, but in spite of the brilliant 
moonlight, he could see nothing moving. Yet Suliman 
was accustomed to night work and it was unlike him to 
shy at shadows. The deserted village had a bad reputa¬ 
tion in the neighbourhood but Carew had never avoided 
it on that account, he had a reputation himself that was 
sufficiently widely known. 

He glanced perfunctorily to right and left as he rode 
through the winding, grass-grown street, but to all ap¬ 
pearances, the place seemed empty as it had been when 
he passed through it earlier in the evening. He was 
nearing the last group of tumbled-down huts when the 
sound of a piercing shriek breaking weirdly on the si¬ 
lence of the night sent Suliman high on his heels in furi¬ 
ous protest. Hauling him down, Carew twisted in the 
saddle, listening intently. It came again, echoing from 


THE DESERT HEALER 


37 


a little lane that straggled from the main street, the wail 
of a woman’s voice crying wildly in French for help. 
A woman—in such a place and at such an hour! Carew’s 
compressed lips parted in a mirthless grin and he re¬ 
laxed his strained attention. What was a woman doing 
at midnight in that village of ill repute? Some little 
fool, doubtless, who had tempted providence too highly, 
paying the price of her folly! Well, let her pay. In 
all probability she had brought it on herself—she could 
abide by the consequences. It was no business of his, 
anyhow. Why should he, of all men, interfere to help 
a woman in her need—what was a woman’s suffering to 
him? His face was set and grimly hard as he soothed 
his plunging horse and prepared to ride on. But as Suli- 
man started forward the cry was repeated with words 
that made Carew check him with an iron hand and bring 
him, quivering to his haunches. Clear and distinct they 
came to him—words of frenzied entreaty to a higher 
power than his, words in a language he least expected 
to hear. 

“Help, help l oh, God, send help l” 

An Englishwoman! For a moment he battled with 
himself. Then with a terrible oath he wrenched his 
horse’s head round savagely and drove him down the 
little lane at a headlong gallop. 

The lane was a cul-de-sac, the house he sought at the 
far end of it, for there only did a dim light filtering 
through an unshuttered window show any sign of habi¬ 
tation. Deep shadows masked the entrance and a few 
feet short of it, in a patch of vivid moonlight, he pulled 
up and, leaping to the ground, raced towards the hidden 


38 


THE DESERT HEALER 


doorway. His foot was on the crumbling step when 
out of the gloom three figures rose up to bar his entrance 
and hurled themselves upon him. The attack was 
silent, and in silence he met it. There was no time to 
reach for the revolver he had neglected to draw. Strain¬ 
ing, heaving, he wrestled in the darkness with opponents 
whose faces he could not see, whose arms encircled him 
and whose clutching sinewy hands tore murderously at 
his throat. A knife pricked him and with a blind 
instinct he caught at and held the hand that brandished 
it, crushing it in his strong fingers till he felt the yield¬ 
ing bones crack and the weapon slipped to the ground 
with a faint tinkle. In perfect physical condition, with 
steely muscles toughened by years of strenuous and active 
life, he knew that singly he could have matched any 
one of the men who were hemming him in, but against 
three even his great strength was unavailing. Struggling 
to free his arms, he gave back step by step as they 
pressed him closer in a continued silence that was men¬ 
acing by its very unusualness. Even the man whose 
hand he had maimed had made no sound beyond a muf¬ 
fled growl. Only the shuffling of feet on the dry ground, 
the panting, arimal-like grunts of exertion as they grap¬ 
pled with him, were audible. The rank stench of 
filthy, sweat-drenched garments was pungent in his nos¬ 
trils; hot, fetid breath fanning his face gave him—accus¬ 
tomed though he was to the dirt and squalor of the 
Arabs—a feeling of nausea that sent a shiver of disgust 
through him. At last with a tremendous effort he 
wrenched himself free and reeled back, gasping, into the 
patch of moonlight, his heart pounding against his ribs, 


THE DESERT HEALER 


39 


perspiration pouring from him. And as the bright light 
struck across his face the men who had followed him 
swiftly drew back with sudden indetermination, mutter¬ 
ing amongst themselves. He caught the words “El 
Hakim,” the title he bore amongst the desert people, and 
almost before he realised it they had vanished into the 
shadows of the neighbouring houses and he was alone. 
For a moment he fought for breath, wiping the blind¬ 
ing moisture from his dripping face, fumbling for the 
revolver in his waistcloth. Then another strangled cry 
from within the lighted hut spurred him into action and 
he sprang forward, flinging back the heavy burnous 
from his shoulders as he ran. The rotting door crashed 
open under the sudden impact of his weight and in the 
entrance he halted with levelled revolver. For a second 
only. His eyes sweeping the tiny room met those of a 
gigantic, evil-faced Arab who, startled at his appearance, 
had flung to the ground the woman who struggled in his 
arms and turned to meet the intruder with a scowl of 
murderous ferocity. A grim smile of recognition flick¬ 
ered across Carew’s stern face. “Thou —dog?” he thun¬ 
dered, and leaped at him. For a moment the Arab 
wavered, then a knife flashed in his hand. But with a 
quick feint Carew dodged the sweeping blow and caught 
the upraised wrist in a vice-like grip. With h u revolver 
pressing into the man’s stomach he forced him back 
slowly against the wall of the hut, his fingers tightening 
their hold until the paralysed hand unclenched and the 
knife clattered to the floor. Kicking it beyond reach, 
Carew backed a few paces and, still keeping the Arab 
covered, turned his attention for the first time to the 


40 


THE DESERT HEALER 


woman he had come reluctantly to aid. Only a girl appar¬ 
ently, her face almost childish in its strained, white 
piteousness, she had dragged herself up from the floor 
and was standing rocking on her feet in the middle of 
the room. He looked with a kind of cruel deliberation 
on the slender, shaking limbs which, clothed in boyish 
riding dress that intimately revealed their delicate beauty, 
would have been the joy of an artist, but which filled 
him only with an acute feeling of antagonism. The 
folly of it, the shameless, senseless folly of it! A woman 
must be a fool and worse than a fool to expose herself 
thus in a land of veiled femininity. His antagonism 
augmented and he viewed unmoved the signs of terrible 
struggle through which she had passed. That she had 
fought desperately was evidenced in the marks of vio¬ 
lent handling she bore, in the unbound hair that lay in 
curling chestnut waves about her shoulders, in the tat¬ 
tered silk shirt that, ripped from throat to waist, bared 
the soft whiteness of her heaving breasts to the austere 
gaze bent so pitilessly on her. She seemed unaware of 
Carew’s nearness. Panting for breath, her hands clench¬ 
ing and unclenching mechanically, she stood like a driven 
animal at bay, her eyes fixed on the Arab in a wild, 
unblinking stare. Carew broke the silence abruptly with 
a blunt question addressed to her that was brutally direct. 
He spoke in French that both could understand and be¬ 
cause he had no wish tonight to pass as other than an 
Arab himself. The harsh voice roused her to a realisa¬ 
tion of his presence. She started violently, her hunted 
eyes turning slowly to him as if she dared not lose sight 
of the sinister figure by the wall. For a few seconds 


THE DESERT HEALER 


41 


she stared at him uncomprehendingly, then her cheeks 
flamed suddenly as the meaning of his words penetrated. 
Her lips quivered and she shrank back, dragging the 
tangle of soft hair over her uncovered bosom with an 
instinctive gesture of modesty. She tried to speak, but 
for some time no words would come, then a wail of 
entreaty burst from her. “Take me away, oh, for God’s 
sake take me away!” she cried, and buried her face in 
her hands with a convulsive shudder. 

He jerked his head impatiently. The life he had led 
for the last twelve years had made him intolerant of 
convention, he had no intention of allowing it to inter¬ 
fere now with the rough and ready justice he was fully 
prepared to administer. He had no reason to hesitate. 
The Arab was a well-known criminal, che abduction of 
an English visitor an offence the Algerian Government 
could not in any sense condone. 

“I will take you away when you have answered my 
question, Madame,” he said coldly. “This is no time 
or place for false modesty. Does he go free or—” he 
raised his revolver with a gesture that was unmistakable. 
But the sharp cry of protest arrested him, and shudder¬ 
ing again she drew further from him till she leant against 
the opposite wall, clinging to it and hiding her face like 
a child fearful of some impending horror. “No—no— 
not that,” she gasped, “let him go. You came—in time.” 
The last words trailed into an almost inaudible whisper 
and with a little moan she slipped to the floor as if the 
last remnant of her strength had left her. 

Indifferent tc her distress he turned from her to the 
more pressing matter of the Arab. 


42 


THE DESERT HEALER 


“What shame is this, O Abdul?” he said sternly, 
relapsing into Arabic. Shuffling his feet the man glanced 
past him towards the open doorway from which 
Carew’s tall figure effectually barred him. He knew 
that in the few minutes that had passed he had been 
nearer to death than was comfortable to contemplate. 
He had no desire to enter into a detailed history of his 
offence, his sole wish at the moment was to remove 
himself as speedily as might be from the proximity of 
t^e accusing eyes fixed on him. True, a reprieve had 
been granted—but for how long? Memories of past 
dealings with the man who stood before him made him 
keep a wary eye on the revolver that Carew still held 
with unpleasant suggestiveness. 

“Shame indeed, O Sidi,” he whined with a cringing 
salaam, “had I known that the lalla was under thy pro¬ 
tection. But is not my lord known throughout all Algeria 
as one who deigns not to stoop his eyes to the face 
of a woman?” 

There was cunning mixed with curiosity in the swift 
upward glance that met Carew’s frowning stare for an 
instant and then wavered to earth again. The scowl on 
the Englishman’s face deepened. 

“Yet would I have killed thee for what thou hast done 
tonight,” he said quickly, “be very sure of that, O Abdul. 
But the lalla has given thee thy life. Give thanks—and 
go.” 

He cut short the Arab’s glib protestations and hustled 
him towards the door. But on the threshold the man 
paused irresolutely, with another obsequious salaam. 

“I have served my lord in the past,” he muttered sul- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


43 


lenly, “for the sake of that service will not my lord for¬ 
get—tonight?” 

Carew looked at him through narrowing eyelids. 

“To suit thine own ends hast thou served me,” he 
said pointedly, “and forgetfulness comes not readily to 
those who live with a sharp reminder—as I shall live,” 
he added, stooping swiftly and catching up the knife 
that lay near his foot. With a cold smile he thrust it 
into his waistcloth and turned slowly back into the room. 
He did not trouble to wait and watch the man off the 
premises. He had known Abdul el Dhib for years aud 
his knowledge made him confident that in t v e meantime 
he was safe from any form of revenge from the human 
jackal on whose head the Algerian Government had set 
a price. Usually his activities were confined to more 
remote districts and Carew had been surprised to see 
him so near to civilisation. But it was no part of his 
business to act as a common police spy and he knew that 
Abdul had counted on the fact when he had endeavoured 
to make terms with him. Remained the more perplexing 
problem of the woman thrust, wholly undesired, on his 
hands. She was still crouched on the dusty mud floor 
where she had fallen and he went to her reluctantly. 

She shivered at his touch, staggei'ng to her feet with 
a swift glance of apprehension round the room. Clutch¬ 
ing the screening mass of curls about her she passed a 
hand over her eyes as though clearing away the remem¬ 
brance of some horrible vision. She showed no fear of 
the tall Arab-clad figure standing beside her, by some 
curious instinct she seemed sensible that his presence 
constituted a protection and not a menace. But equally 


44 


THE DESERT HEALER 


she displayed no haste to explain the predicament in 
which he had found her or to disclose her identity. 
Stunned by the terrible experience through which she 
had passed, she appeared to be only half conscious and 
incapable of any initiative. Carew, passionately anxious 
to be quit of the whole business, was not inclined to beat 
about the bush, but came to the point with characteristic 
directness. 

“You come from Blidah, Madame?” 

She looked at him blankly, her puzzled eyes still shad¬ 
owy with pain, and he repeated the question slower and 
more distinctly. 

“Blidah—” she echoed vaguely. “Blidah? No—Al¬ 
giers.” 

A look of dismay crossed Carew’s face. Algiers was 
thirty miles away. He could have taken her back to 
Blidah easily enough, but Algiers with Suliman, who had 
already done a hard day's work, carrying double—it was 
out of the question. He jerked his head with a gesture 
of annoyance and scowled thoughtfully, mentally cursing 
Abdul el Dhib and the woman beside him with fine im¬ 
partiality. 

“Where in Algiers?” he asked shortly, by way of gain¬ 
ing time to think out the awkward situation. But the 
girl was past all explanations. “Algiers—” she repeated 
weakly and, reeling, would have fallen but for the strong 
arm slipped round her. That settled it. Half fainting 
and wholly unable to express herself she could give him 
no assistance and he realised there was nothing for it 
but the expedient he least desired—that of taking her 
to his own camp. His own camp—good Godl Antago- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


45 


nism grew into actual dislike as he glanced down at the 
slender boyish figure leaning agaiust him. With a grunt 
of disgust he half led, half carried her out of the hut. 

Suliman, trained to stand, was waiting in the patch 
of moonlight, jerking the dangling bridle impatiently. 
Unhooking his heavy burnous Carew rolled it into a 
long, soft pad and flung it across the horse’s neck in 
front of the high-peaked saddle. Then he swung the 
girl up with a curt “Hold on to his mane” and leaped 
up behind her, wondering what would be the result of 
Suliman’s first excited plunge. But with instinctive good 
grace the horse refrained from his usual display of light¬ 
hearted exuberance and set off soberly at a slow canter 
to which Carew held him. There were no signs of Abdul 
and his band of cut-throats, no lurking shadows in the 
vicinity of the silent houses and in a few minutes the 
village was behind them. 

Carew rode with a tight rein and a watchful eye on 
the drooping little figure in front of him. His own tall, 
muscular form was drawn up in the saddle taut and 
rigid with repugnance at her nearness, every fibre in his 
being revolting from the proximity of her woman’s body. 
The subtle torture of it made him grit his teeth and 
thick, cold drops of moisture gathered on his forehead. 
He raged at the necessity that had forced him to a step 
that an hour ago he would have thought beyond the 
bounds of possibility. And tonight of all nights, when 
h:s senses were already raw and aching with the recol¬ 
lections of the past that had racked him almost beyond 
bearing. 

The calm to which he had schooled himself through 


46 


THE DESERT HEALER 


years of self-discipline and self-suppression had been 
swept away and he was aghast at the tumult within him 
which seemed to be tearing down every defence and bar¬ 
rier he had raised so strenuously. 

The need of one fragile girl had caused him to break 
a resolution from which he had sworn never to turn. 
And at the moment he could cheerfully have thrown the 
fragile girl behind the clump of rocks they were passing 
and washed his hands of the whole affair. Because she 
was English—it was the sole reason for the action that 
had so surprised himself. Race loyalty had, in an extreme 
moment, proved stronger than his determination and 
her sex had been swamped in her nationality. But for 
those few words in English he would have ridden on. 
The appeal coming in another language had left him 
unmoved, but repeated in the mother-tongue that had 
become almost foreign to him had stirred him powerfully, 
even against his own inclination. But the call of the 
blood that had triumphed so unexpectedly over him did 
not in any way mitigate the constraint of his present 
situation. It was an embarrassment that grew momen¬ 
tarily more acute and distasteful. He was impatient of 
every little circumstance that augmented his discomfiture. 
His nerves on edge he found cause for annoyance even 
in the slow pace at which he was compelled to ride. It 
irked him as badly as it was irking Suliman who, with 
his nose turned towards home, was snatching at his bit 
and endeavouring to break into the usual gallop. The 
girl herself settled the last problem. She had been 
drooping more and more over the horse’s neck, clutching 
instinctively at the thick mane in which her fingers were 


THE DESERT HEALER 


47 


twined, but now without a word or sound she collapsed 
and fell back in a dead faint. 

With his face gone suddenly ghastly Carew lifted her 
until she lay across his thighs, his left arm crooked about 
her shoulders, her dishevelled little head pressing against 
his breast. God in heaven, it only wanted this! Cursing 
savagely he drove his spurs with unwonted cruelty into 
his horse’s sides and gave him his head. And in the 
wild rush through the cool night that followed he tried 
to forget that he carried a woman in his arms. But the 
slender little body, warm and yielding against his own, 
was a reminder that obtruded toe powerfully to allow 
of forgetfulness. So had he carried his wife once after 
a minor accident in the hunting field, and then, as now, 
a thick strand of scented hair had blown across his face 
blinding him with its soft fragrance. He tore it away 
with shaking fingers. 

Impossible now to stem the flood of recollection. It 
was stronger than his will to put it from him. More 
painful, more crushing even than before it swept him 
with a force he was powerless to resist and he made no 
further effort, surrendering his mind to its bitter mem¬ 
ories while he urged Suliman recklessly, car r * 1 ess whether 
he broke his neck and the girl’s or not. And with a 
madness almost equal to his own, goaded by the sharp 
spurs that Carew used so seldom the bay tore on at 
racing speed, breasting the tiny hillocks and thundering 
down their gentle declivities, taking rocks and pitfalls 
in his stride, as if tireless. And when at last the open 
plain was reached he turned of his own accord in the 
direction of the camp, hardly slackening his pace until 


48 


THE DESERT HEALER 


he arrived with a great slithering rush before the tent 
door. A couple of grooms sprang forward, but the last 
spurt had been his final effort and he made no attempt 
to evade them, standing with down-drooping head and 
widely planted feet, breathing heavily and trembling with 
exhaustion. 

Gathering the girl closer in his arms Carew slipped to 
the ground. To Hosein, Lnperturbable even in the face 
of this unprecedented spectacle, he vouchsafed only the 
curt explanation “Abdul el Dhib” and ordering coffee to 
be brought to him carried his slight burden into the tent. 

Prejudiced and angry he scowled down at her with 
fierce resentment as he laid her among the silk cushions 
on the divan. That he had himself been compelled to 
bring her here did not in any way lessen his anger or 
make his task easier. But since she was here, helpless 
and dependent on him, common humanity demanded 
that he should do all in his power to aid her. Striving 
to sink the man in the doctor he endeavoured to regard 
her only as a case and set to work to combat the pro¬ 
longed fainting fit that seemed to argue something more 
than a mere collapse from fear and fatigue. And as his 
sombre eyes dwelt on her he found himself reluctantly 
admitting the uncommon beauty of her face and form. 
But her beauty made him no more kindly disposed 
towards her. A woman’s beauty—the transient snare 
that lured trusting fools to their undoing—what was it 
to him who had learned the vileness and hypocrisy that 
lay beneath seeming outward loveliness? With a shrug 
of disdain he raised her higher on the cushions. 

And at last she stirred, the long, dark lashes that lay 


THE DESERT HEALER 


49 


like a dusky fringe on her pale cheek fluttering tremu¬ 
lously. And, as he bent over her, two deep blue eyes 
looked suddenly into his, blankly at first, then with quick 
apprehension that in turn gave place to dawning recog¬ 
nition. 

The colour crept back slowly into her face and with 
a whispered enquiry she struggled to sit up. But he 
pressed her back, slipping another cushion under her 
head. “Lie still for a little while,” he said slowly, “you 
fainted. I had to bring you to my camp. You are quite 
safe.” 

The curious trust she had shown earlier was mani¬ 
fested again for she obeyed him without protest, her rigid 
limbs relaxing against the soft cushions. But the colour 
in her cheeks deepened a$ she glanced wonderingly about 
the room and then at her own disordered appearance. 

“I’ve never fainted before in my life,” she murmured, 
“I’m sorry to have been so stupid—to have given so much 
trouble.” Then, all at once, her lips quivered and with 
a sharp, dry sob she flung her arm across her face. But 
the natural outburst of womanly weeping that Carew 
expected did not follow, only, watching her, he saw from 
time to time spasms of terrible shuddering shake her 
from head to foot. 

The coffee that Hosein brought a few minutes later 
steadied her, and when Carew turned to her again after 
giving his servant further orders she staggered unsteadily 
to her feet with a half shy, half nervous glance about 
the tent. 

“You have been very kind—I don’t know how to thank 
you,” she said hurriedly, “but I can’t trespass on your 


50 


THE DESERT HEALER 


hospitality any longer. I—my husband—oh, I must get 
back—if—if you could lend me a horse—” But even 
as she spoke she swayed giddily and caught at the divan 
for support. Carew looked at her narrowly. ‘‘When 
did you eat last?” he asked abruptly, ignoring her re¬ 
quest. Her eyes closed wearily. “I don’t know,” she 
faltered, “this morning, I think. A cup of coffee—before 
I left home. Oh, it seems ten yeaiS ago!” she burst out 
shuddering. 

It was a simple explanation of her exhaustion that 
had already occurred to him, and for which he had pro¬ 
vided. Want of food, combined with reaction following 
a nerve-racking experience—small wonder she had col¬ 
lapsed, he reflected. 

“Algiers is thirty miles away,” he explained gravely, 
“you are not fit to ride now. You must eat, and rest 
for a few hours before you attempt to return.” 

But she shook her head vehemently. “I couldn’t eat,” 
she panted, a desperate urgency in her voice, “I couldn’t 
rest, I mustn’t rest. I’ve got to get back home. Oh, 
you don’t understand—but I must get back to Algiers.” 
She was shaking with nervousness but Carew felt in¬ 
stinctively that it was not of him she was afraid. And 
consequently who or what inspired her fear was no busi¬ 
ness of his, though as he watched her restlessly twisting 
the golden circlet that gleamed so incongruously on her 
slim, boyish hand he made a shrewd guess at the cause 
of her agitation. But that was her affair. He was con¬ 
cerned only with the need of the moment. 

“Be reasonable, Madame,” he said sharply, “I do not 
keep you to amuse myself, but because you are not in 


THE DESERT HEALER 


51 


a fit state at the moment to ride thirty miles. Eat what 
my servant is bringing, rest for a couple of hours, and 
then I will take you back to Algiers. If your—your 
friends are anxious about you they must be anxious for 
a few hours longer.” 

He spoke almost brutally and though she flinched from 
his tone she seemed to realise the necessity of submitting 
to his decision. But her distress was still obvious and 
he could see that she was fighting hard to maintain the 
restraint she imposed upon herself. And grudgingly he 
conceded admiration he was loath to accord. Usually 
courage of any kind appealed to him, but, morbidly prej¬ 
udiced, he was irritated now by the unexpected moral 
courage she displayed. He did not want to admit it, did 
not want to be forced to admire where he preferred to 
condemn, and he turned away with a sudden rush of 
unreasonable anger. The entrance of Hosein with the 
food he had ordered put a period to an awkward silence. 
And when the man withdrew, Carew followed him out 
under the awning leaving the girl alone, for it seemed to 
him that his presence must be as distasteful to her as 
her own was to him. He detained the Arab for a few 
moments to explain his further requirements, and then 
subsided into the deck chair with a stifled yawn. Like 
Suliman, he had already put in a hard day’s work and 
there were still thirty miles to ride before sunrise. But 
he was used to turning night into day and inured to 
fatigue, and it was mental rather than physical weariness 
that made him relax in his chair with a heavy sigh. In 
spite of his efforts to control his thoughts, his mind was 
in a ferment, and brain and body alike were in a state 


52 


THE DESERT HEALER 


of nervous tension that sapped his strength and left him 
at the mercy of an overwhelming tide of long forgotten 
emotions. The strain of the meeting with Micky Mere¬ 
dith had weakened him for the further developments of 
the evening. He could still feel the soft weight of the 
girl's limp body in his arms, he brushed his hand across 
his face as though the thick strand of hair was again 
smothering him with its soft fragrance. Angry with 
himself, angry with her, he tried to forget her—and 
found himself suddenly wondering who she was. Good 
Lord, as if it mattered! Cursing under his breath he 
pitched his cigarette away and went back into the tent. 

The girl met his glance with a shy smile. “I was 
hungry, after all,” she said, pointing to the empty tray, 
“and I’m so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open.” 

But determined to go no further than bare courtesy 
demanded he vouchsafed only a brief nod to her tenta¬ 
tive advance and led the way to the inner room. She 
paused on the threshold, looking curiously at the little 
sleeping apartment, then turned to him with a swift im¬ 
ploring glance. “You won’t let me sleep too long?” 

For a moment Carew’s gloomy eyes looked deeply 
into the troubled depths of the blue ones fixed so ear¬ 
nestly on his, then: “The horses will be ready in two 
hours,” he said curtly, and dropped the portiere into 
place. For some time he paced the big tent restlessly, 
a prey to violent agitation. He swore at himself angrily. 
What in God’s name was the matter with him! Why 
did his thoughts, despite himself, keep turning to the 
woman in the adjoining room? Woman! She was only 
a girl, little more than a child in spite of the wedding 


THE DESERT HEALER 


53 


ring that seemed to lie so uneasily on her slim finger. 
Any woman or child, what did she matter to him. Once 
safely back in Algiers she could go to the devil for all 
he cared. 

Swinging on his heel he crossed the room and taking 
a medical book from a small case by the door, flung him¬ 
self on the divan to read until the waiting time was over. 

He was still reading when Hosein came back two 
hours later. 

Laying the book aside with no particular haste he took 
a white burnous his servant tendered him and went 
slowly towards the inner room, scowling with annoyance 
and disinclination. Yet somebody had to wake the girl 
and he could hardly relegate the job to Hosein. He 
swept the curtains aside with an impatient jerk. She 
was still asleep, lying in an attitude of unconscious grace, 
her face hidden in the mass of tangled curls spread over 
the pillow. And from her his frowning gaze went 
swiftly round the room as if the alien presence made 
him see it with new eyes. His stern lips set more rigidly 
cs he touched her shoulder. She woke with a start and 
leaped to her feet with a sharp cry that changed quickly 
to a nervous little laugh of embarrassment. “I was 
dreaming—I—is it time?” she stammered, stifling a yawn 
and blinking like a sleepy child. Sparing of speech he 
held out the white cloak. “The night is cool,” he said 
briefly, and turned away too quickly to notice the vivid 
blush that suffused her face. 

At the door of the tent, under the awning, he found 
Hosein, who was to accompany them, waiting for him 
and together they watched the three black horses Carew 


54 


THE DESERT HEALER 


had selected for the journey being walked to and fro in 
the moonlight by the grooms. 

And in an incredibly short space of time the girl joined 
them. The enveloping burnous was clasped securely, 
hiding her tattered clothing, and she seemed to have 
regained her self-possession for she was quite at ease and 
looked about with eager curiosity at the scattered camp, 
and then with even greater interest at the waiting horses. 
The stallion Carew was to ride was almost unapproach¬ 
able, wild-eyed and savage, held with difficulty by the 
two men who clung to his head. But the mount he had 
chosen for his unwelcome guest was a steadier, friendly 
beast that nozzled her inquisitively as she went to him. 
She caught at his velvety nose with a little cry of delight, 
“Oh, what a darling!” and rubbed her cheek against his 
muzzle, crooning to him softly. Then before Carew 
could aid her she was in the saddle, backing to make 
room for the screaming fury that was demonstrating 
his own reluctance to be mounted by every device known 
to his equine intelligence. But his rage was futile and 
Carew was up in a flash. And for five minutes Marny 
Geradine, who had ridden from babyhood, watched with 
breathless interest the sharpest tussle she had ever seen 
between a horse and its rider, and marvelled at the infinite 
patience of the man who sat the plunging, frenzied brute 
like a centaur, handling him perfectly without exhibit¬ 
ing the smallest trace of annoyance. His methods 
were not the cruel ones which, for five miserable years, 
she had been compelled to witness, she thought with 
sudden bitterness And yet this man was an Arab in 
whom cruelty might be excused. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


55 


Then as Carew wheeled alongside of her she put away 
the painful thoughts that had risen in her irind and 
gave herself up to the delights of this strange ride with 
this equally strange companion. 

It was all like a dream, fantastic and unreal, but a 
dream that gave her more happiness than she had known 
for years. The swift gallop through the night, the cool 
wind blowing against her face, the easy movements of 
the horse between her knees, were all sheer joy to her. 
She had no wish to talk, even if the taciturn manner of 
the man beside her had not made speech difficult. She 
wanted nothing but the pleasure of the moment, the 
beauty of the moonlit scene and the charm of the won¬ 
derful solitude. For her Algeria had been Algiers, she 
had not been asked to accompany her husband on his 
occasional shooting expeditions, and she had wearied of 
the town and its immediate surroundings. She had 
longed to go further afield, to get right out into the 
desert, but she had been given no opportunity and she 
had long since learned to suppress inclinations that were 
ridiculed and never gratified. She craved for open spaces 
and the lonely places of the earth, an l she had been 
chained to towns or crowded country houses and forced 
into a company whose society nauseated her; she had 
dreamt of nights like this, of the silence and peace of 
the wilderness, of solitary camps where she would sleep 
in happy dreamlessness under the radiant stars—and the 
nights that were her portion had been her chiefest tor¬ 
ment. But tl is one night she could revel in her dream 
come true and rejoice in the freedom that might never 
again be hers. That she might have to pay, and perhaps 


56 


THE DESERT HEALER 


pay hideously, for what had occurred did not matter, 
almost she did not care. She had suffered so much 
already that further suffering seemed almost inevitable 
and she would not spoil the rare joy of this wonderful 
ride by anticipating trouble. But even as she argued 
bravely with herself, she blanched at the possible conse¬ 
quences of the terrible adventure that had been no fault 
of her own. If when she reached the villa at Mustapha, 
Clyde had already returned! She clenched her teeth on 
her quivering lip. He had gone for a fortnight’s shoot¬ 
ing and the fortnight would be up tomorrow—today, she 
remembered with a sudden glance of apprehension at 
the sky, where the pinky flush of dawn was already 
showing. He might be back now! And if he were— 
what would her punishment be, what would she have to 
endure from one who knew his strength and used it 
brutally, who was cruel and merciless by nature as if he, 
too, were an Arab. Her mind leapt to the man who had 
abducted her. When, at the close of an appalling day, 
she had been brought to the hut in the deserted village, 
when she had finally realised the sinister purpose intended 
against her, the ghastly fear that had come to her, the 
paralysing sense of helplessness she had felt as she strug¬ 
gled against the crushing arms that held her, the horror 
of the relentless face thrust close to hers quivering with 
lust and desire, was no new thing. So did Clyde look at 
her, so did she shrink and sicken when he touched her. 
Were all men alike—sensual brutes with no consideration 
or pity? One, at least, had shown himself tD be different 
—and he was an Arab! She turned and looked at him 
curiously. By the light of the brilliant moon she studied 


THE DESERT HEALER 


57 


the lean, tanned face, wondering at its grave austerity. 
And as her gaze lingered on the white seam of an old 
scar that ran diagonally across his cheek above the curve 
of his square-cut jaw, she remembered suddenly that the 
stern, sombre eyes that had looked into hers were blue. 
Were there, then, blue-eyed Arabs, as there were blue¬ 
eyed Afghans? Who was he? A personage of impor¬ 
tance, obviously—the rich appointments of the camp to 
which he had taken her, proved it. The embroidered 
cloth burnous, the wide silk scarf swathed about the 
haick that shaded his face, the scarlet leather boots he 
wore was the dress of a Chief. One of the wealthy 
Sheiks from the far south, perhaps, coming into Algiers 
for the Governor’s annual ball. Whoever he was, he had 
saved her honour, had saved her from worse than death. 
And a sudden inexplicable desire came to her to explain 
to this strange, taciturn Arab the situation in which he 
had found her. She swung her horse nearer. “I 

oughtn’t to have ridden alone,” she began jerkily. “I 

know that, but I was quite close to Algiers—it seemed 

safe enough—and I had a reason for what I did. One 

has to—be alone—sometimes. I didn’t think there could 
be any danger. It all happened so suddenly—” she broke 
off, chilled with his silence, wondering how she had found 
courage to speak to him at all, for his frigid manner did 
not invite confidence. And his brief answer did not tend 
to put her more at. ease. 

“It is always dangerous for a woman to ride alone in 
Algeria,” he said gravely. It was his tone rather than 
the actual words that sent the hot blood rushing to her 
face and reduced her to a silence that lasted until they 


58 


THE DESERT HEALER 


sighted the outskirts of Algiers. The dawn was bright¬ 
ening, already the stars were paling and dying, one by 
one, and the red glow of the rising sun was warming in 
the east. 

With a sign to Hosein, Carew drew rein. “My servant 
will attend you, Madame. I can go no further,” he said, 
abruptly, his eyes fixed on the distant city. She sat for 
a moment without answering, then she looked up quickly, 
her lips quivering, uncontrollably. “I don’t know what 
to say—how to thank you—” He cut her short almost 
rudely. “I need no thanks, Madame. Put the one deed 
against the other—and do not judge the Arabs too 
harshly. They are as other men—no better, and perhaps 
no worse.” She shook her head with a tremulous little 
smile, and for a time she seemed to be struggling with 
herself. Then she flung her hand out with an odd gesture 
of appeal. “If you won’t let me thank you, will you let 
me be still further in your debt?” she said, unsteadily. 

“As how?” 

“The horse I rode,” she faltered, “I—I-my husband 

values him. Can you help me get him back—and soon?” 

Surprised that she should seek his aid in what was 
clearly a police matter, Carew glanced at her with a gath¬ 
ering frown, but what he saw in her eyes made him look 
away quickly. 

“You shall have your horse, Madame. I pledge you 
my word,” he said, shortly. A look of curious relief 
swept over her tense face. 

“Then I shan’t worry about him—any more,” she said, 
with a shaky laugh. And reigning her horse nearer, again 
she held out her hand. “Won’t you tell me your name? 



THE DESERT HEALER 


59 


I should like to know it, to remember it in—in—” she 
choked back a rising sob. “Please,” she whispered. 

He turned to her slowly, his eyes almost black in their 
sombre intensity. “I have many names,” he replied, un¬ 
willingly, as though he were forcing himself to speak. 

“Then tell me one,” she pleaded, wistfully. 

Still he hesitated, his square chin thrust out obstinately. 

“I am called—El Hakim,” he said at last, reluctantly. 
And touching his forehead in a perfunctory salaam, he 
wheeled his impatient horse and spurred him into a head¬ 
long gallop. 


CHAPTER III 


For a few moments, MJarny Geradine, fighting to keep 
her own mount to a standstill, watched the fast retreat¬ 
ing horseman until his tall, upright figure was blurred by 
the rush of hot tears that filled her eyes. She forced 
them back before they fell, the relief of tears was a lux¬ 
ury she had learned to deny herself, and turning once 
more towards Algiers cantered forward as slowly as her 
eager horse would permit. After all, what was the use 
of hurrying, she thought with a kind of dreary fatalism. 
If Clyde had already returned he would have arrived last 
night, a few minutes extra delay now would make no 
difference. The mischief would have been done. Noth¬ 
ing she could do would lessen his anger, nothing she 
could say would convince him against his own inclina¬ 
tion. The true story of her terrible experience would 
find no credence with him. And even all the truth she 
dare not tell him. The latter part of the night’s adven¬ 
ture could never be divulged. The strange Arab who 
rescued her, his hospitality, his chivalrous regard and 
consideration would be beyond her husband’s comprehen¬ 
sion. He was incapable of understanding a temperament 
other than his own, he would believe only the vile con¬ 
clusion his own foul mind would leap at and hold in spite 
of all denials. She could never tell him. Enough that 
his return had found her absent, that she had lost a 
valuable horse for which he had recently paid a large 
60 


THE DESERT HEALER 


61 


figure. True, she had been promised that the horse would 
be returned, and the curious unaccountable faith she had 
in the man who had made that promise did not waver in 
spite of the seeming improbability of its fulfillment, but 
would his return even satisfy Clyde for his temporary 
loss? A cold feeling of fear ran through her, and then a 
wave of contemptuous anger at her own cowardice. She 
could make no explanations and offer no excuses. She 
would have to be silent as she always was silent rather 
than lie to shield herself from his imputations. What¬ 
ever she did was wrong, no matter how hard she tried to 
please him she always failed. She wondered, sometimes, 
how she found courage to go on trying. It all seemed so 
utterly useless. She pushed the heavy hair off her fore¬ 
head with a bitter sigh. There wasn’t much courage 
about her this morning, she thought. The exultation of 
that wild swift gallop through the night had passed, the 
new strength that had come to her had evaporated, leav¬ 
ing her utterly weary and sick at heart. It would have 
settled so many difficulties if the Arab who had abducted 
her had used with purpose the knife with which he had 
threatened her the previous day. Death would mean 
release from a life that was unbearable, and she was not 
afraid to die. Death was life—and the life she led was 
death. All whom she loved, all who had ever loved her— 
for Clyde’s gross passion was not love—were dead. All 
except Ann—and how much longer would Ann be left to 
her? Clyde had so often threatened that she must go. 
For Ann’s sake she must try and struggle on. But if 
Ann was taken from her—the beautiful, tired little face 
grew suddenly cold and set like a piece of carved white 


62 


THE DESERT HEALER 


ivory and the slender, drooping figure drew straighter in 
the saddle as she wrenched her thoughts to the present. 
To get it over as soon as might be—to take her medicine 
like a man. Despite her unhappiness, she smiled at the 
recollection of the well remembered formula that in her 
childhood had been her father’s invariable prelude to any 
correction he administered. And the father who had 
died so long ago, who had idolised her as she had idolised 
him, had never punished without reason. Clyde punished 
without either reason or provocation. The thought 
goaded her. No matter what form his anger took she 
would not give him the satisfaction he always hoped for. 
She would not let him see the physical fear he inspired 
that even her courageous spirit could not conquer. It 
would be worse for her in the end for her apparent cal¬ 
lousness infuriated him, but she would rather break than 
bend, rather die than grovel at his feet which she knew 
was his desire. Avoiding the main road which she was 
approaching, she struck into a narrow bridle path that 
wound upward to the woods behind Mustapha, from 
where she had easy access to the little door that half 
hidden by flowering shrubs lay at the far end of the villa 
garden. The courage she still clung to did not extend to 
braving the curiosity of the gatekeeper at the main 
entrance. A turn in the track brought her to the path 
that led down to the garden gate. She reined in and slid to 
the ground. For a moment she stood still by the horse 
that had carried her so well, her face pressed against his 
neck, her fingers caressing the black muzzle thrust affec¬ 
tionately against her arm. Then she turned and handed 
the bridle to Hosein who was waiting stolidly beside her. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


63 


‘‘That is the villa,” she said, pointing downward, “will 
you tell your master that he may know where to send my 
horse? It is called the Villa des Ombres. You will not 
forget?” 

The Arab’s dark eyes followed the direction of her 
hand. “It is known to my lord,” he said gravely, “it is 
the villa of the Vicomte de Granier, who is his friend.” 

She smiled at the little piece of gratuitous information. 

“Go, with God,” she murmured shyly in his own tongue. 
It was one of the few sentences she had learned and as 
the man heard the stumbling words his gloomy face lit up 
suddenly and he replied with a flow of soft quick Arabic 
she could not understand. She watched him mount and, 
leading the horse she had ridden, move slowly away, not, 
to her surprise, in the direction from which they had 
come but along the winding bridle road that led further 
up the hillside. The trees soon hid him from sight, and 
with another weary sigh she turned and looked again on 
the Villa des Ombres. White and dainty as a doll’s house, 
set in the loveliest garden she had ever seen, surrounded 
by a high wall washed with palest yellow, the name 
seemed singularly inappropriate, yet as she looked at it 
now the significance of it struck her forcibly. For her it 
was indeed a villa of shadows, dark, menacing shadows 
that crept nearer to her as she hesitated beside the little 
path her feet had trodden so often. With a quickening 
heart-beat she pulled herself together and went down to 
the tiny doorway. Thick fronds of jasmine trailed 
across it and she put them aside carefully while she 
hunted for the key. The door opened inwards and she 
slipped through, closing it gently behind her, and stood 


64 


THE DESERT HEALER 


for a moment with all the length of the garden between 
her and the villa, clutching the burnous closer round her, 
staring fixedly in the direction of the house. The garden 
was deserted, it was too early even for the gardeners who 
were not allowed to disturb by their chattering the pro¬ 
tracted slumbers of the English milor who usually lay 
like a log for hours after the sun had risen. There was 
no sign of life within the villa. Everything was hushed 
and still, a brooding silence that oppressed her over¬ 
wrought nerves. The heavy cloying perfume of the flow¬ 
ering shrubs brought a feeling of nausea that made her 
choke with sudden breathlessness. Her heart was beating 
suffocatingly as she started forward, moving slowly from 
tree to tree, instinctively taking what cover they afforded. 
At first she hardly realised what she was doing, then a 
blaze of anger went through her. She flung her shoulders 
back defiantly. She was not a thief to creep stealthily 
into her own house; whatever horrible construction Clyde 
might choose to put upon what had happened, she had 
done nothing to be ashamed of. With head held high 
and lips firmly compressed, she flung out from among the 
sheltering wealth of foliage into the open and walked 
steadily towards the house. It was a modern villa built 
in the French style, with all the rooms communicating. 
The bedrooms were at the back, opening on to a veranda 
which led to the garden. And to her own bedroom, the 
room she shared with the brute who owned her, she went 
with dragging feet. Before the open French window 
that gave access to the room, she came to a sudden halt 
and her eyes swept the cool dim interior with one swift 
glance of apprehension. Then she fell weakly against the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


65 


window frame with a strangled gasp of relief, trembling 
violently, conscious for the first time of an overwhelm¬ 
ing weariness that seemed to take from her every atom 
of strength. The room appeared to be empty; the mas¬ 
sive bed, its silken curtains hanging from a gilt coronet 
fixed in the ceiling had not been slept in. 

But as she looked again, too tired to move, she saw 
what she had overlooked at first, the tall gaunt figure of a 
woman, clothed in black, kneeling beside a big armchair, 
her neat grey head bowed on her folded arms. And as 
Mamy bent forward eagerly there came to her ears the 
low soft murmur of a voice raised in passionate prayer. 

A faint smile flitted across her pale face. 

“Ann,” she whispered. 

With a wild cry the woman scrambled to her feet and 
rushed at her, catching her in her arms with hungry 
fierceness. 

“My lamb—my lamb—” she sobbed, and held her as if 
she never meant to let her go. And yielding to the weak¬ 
ness that was growing on her, almost happy for the mo¬ 
ment in the shelter of the tender arms wrapped around her, 
Marny laid her aching head on the shoulder of the woman 
who had nursed her from babyhood. But the transient 
happiness passed quickly and she freed herself with a 
single word of interrogation. 

“Clyde?” 

The old woman’s face hardened suddenly. “His lord¬ 
ship’s not back—thank God,” she said, grimly. With an 
inward prayer of thankfulness Marny dropped into a 
chair. The relief was tremendous, the respite more than 
she had dared to hope for. As Clyde was not yet back 


66 


THE DESERT HEALER 


then there was no possibility of his arriving before the 
evening when she would have strength again to meet him. 
But there was still one thing that had to be arranged be¬ 
fore he came. She put aside the trembling hands that 
were fumbling at the clasp of the enveloping cloak. 

“Tanner,” she said, hoarsely, “fetch Tanner. I must 
speak to him at once.” 

The woman made a gesture of protest. “Never mind 
Tanner, Miss Marny dear,” she said, soothingly. “Tan¬ 
ner can wait. Let me put you cosily into bed first and 
then I’ll tell him you are safe home. He’s close by and 
won’t take any finding. Give him his due, he’s been nearly 
as anxious as me, backwards and forwards between the 
house and the stables since yesterday morning—and 
worrying more about you, my precious, I’m bound to 
admit, than that nasty, vicious horse he’s so partic’lar 
about,” she added, trying again to unfasten the burnous. 
Marny guessed at the unspoken anxiety that made Ann’s 
fingers so unusually clumsy and smiled reassuringly. 

“You don’t understand,” she said, with gentle insis¬ 
tence, “I must see him. Don’t fuss, Ann dear. I’m not 
hurt or damaged in any way, I’m only desperately tired. 
But I can’t rest until I’ve spoken to Tanner. Bring him 
here, and then you can coddle me to your heart’s content. 
But I won’t move from this chair until I’ve seen him.” 

“But, Miss Marny, it’s your bedroom,” exclaimed Ann 
in horrified accents, “and you in that outlandish cloak 
and all, and your hair—” 

“Oh, never mind my hair, you dear old propriety, and 
Tanner won’t trouble his head about it being my bed¬ 
room. Do as I ask you, Ann, if you love me,” said 


THE DESERT HEALER 


67 


Marny, wearily. And muttering to herself Ann departed 
grudgingly. 

She returned almost immediately followed by an 
undersized, sharp-faced man, who bore the marks of his 
calling stamped plainly upon him. Half jockey, half 
groom, Cockney from the top of his bullet head to the 
tips of his neat feet, he accepted the situation with the 
aplomb of his kind. 

Saluting smartly, he waited for Lady Geradine to speak. 
And Marny who liked and trusted the little man did not 
hesitate. 

“I’ve lost The Caid, Tanner,” she said, bluntly. For a 
moment his coolness forsook him. “My Gawd!” he 
breathed and stared at her in frank dismay. Then he 
recovered himself quickly. “Did you take a toss, m’lady, 
did ’e ’arm you, the vicious devil—begging your ladyship’s 
pardon. Mrs. Ann and me, we’ve been cruel anxious,” 
he added with the suspicion of a shake in his rasping 
voice. Marny smiled at him and shook her head. 

“I’m not hurt, thank you, Tanner. The chestnut was 
stolen. I ought not to have taken him so far from Algiers. 
I forgot that he might be known, might be a temp¬ 
tation to any Arab who knew his value—there are a lot 
of desert men coming into the town just now. Anyhow 
he’s gone. I couldn’t do anything alone. But I—I’ve 
given information about it and I’m almost certain that he 
will be sent back. So you needn’t worry, Tanner. I’m 
sure it will be all right. It was my fault entirely, it prob¬ 
ably wouldn’t have happened if I had taken you with me. 
But there is no good in going back to that. I’ll explain 
to his lordship and—and please keep near the stables, 


68 


THE DESERT HEALER 


Tanner, in case the horse comes back today,” she added, 
hastily, struggling to keep her voice steady. For a mo¬ 
ment the man hesitated, then with a quiet, “Very good, 
m’lady,” he jerked his hand to his forehead and tip-toed 
from the room. Outside in the hall he looked back over 
his shoulder at the closed door, his face working oddly. 
“You’ll explain to ’is blooming lordship, will you m’lady? 
Gawd almighty, we all know what that’ll mean! I’d a 
deal rather take the blame meself—blast ’im!” he mut¬ 
tered, and strode off very far from sharing his mistress’s 
optimism with regard to the stolen horse. 

In the bedroom, Marny leant back wearily in the deep 
armchair, too tired to move, wondering at her own con¬ 
fidence in the promise that had been made to her, won¬ 
dering at the man himself and at the strange feeling of 
security she had felt in his presence. 

Ann’s anxious voice roused her and rising with an 
effort she submitted without further protest to the minis¬ 
trations of her old nurse who stripped the tattered clothing 
from her with exclamations of horror at the sight of 
the bruises marring the whiteness of the delicate body 
she worshipped. 

She had seen, with almost murder in her heart, similar 
bruises before on those slim young arms and knew them 
for what they were, the marks of a man’s merciless fingers. 
But she made no comment while she bathed the ach¬ 
ing limbs, and brushed the tangled mop of curly hair, 
and finally tucked up her charge in bed as if she were a 
child again. And until the last drop of strong soup she 
brought was finished, and she had drawn the jalousies 
over the open window, she refrained from asking the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


69 


questions that kept rising to her lips. But when every¬ 
thing she could think of for her mistress’s comfort was 
done she slipped on to her knees by the bedside and 
caught the girl’s hands in hers. 

“Tell me, Miss Marny dear,” she pleaded, tremulously, 
“you can’t go bottling things up inside of you forever. It 
will ease your mind to speak—for once. There’s a lot 
more than you let out to Tanner, you that came home in 
rags and bruised fit to break my heart. What did they 
do to you, my precious? Where have you been all these 
weary hours that I’ve been nearly out of my senses with 
fright—thinking you dead, or worse, and dreading his 
lordship’d come back and find you gone, and all.” 

And thankful for the opportunity of confiding fully 
once more in the faithful old nurse who, until five years 
ago, had shared her every secret, Marny told her. And 
Ann listened, as she had listened long ago to the frank 
recital of childish escapades, in silence. Only the trem¬ 
bling of her thin lips, the occasional tightening of her worn 
old hand, betrayed the agitation she would not allow her¬ 
self to voice. Miss M^rny had been through enough, had 
suffered enough for one day, she wouldn’t want any 
more “scenes” now it was all safely ovey. She brushed 
the hair tenderly from the damp white forehead and rose 
to her feet with a long drawn breath. “It was bad enough 
—God be thanked it wasn’t worse,” she said, softly. “I’d 
never have believed the day would come when I’d feel a 
particle of gratitude toward an Arab—nasty, slinking, 
treacherous creatures I’ve always thought them. That 
man of his lordship’s—Malec—fair gives me the creeps. 
But I suppose there’s good as well as bad amongst them, 


70 


THE DESERT HEALER 


there must be by what you’ve told me. A Christian gentle¬ 
man couldn’t have done more, and there’s many who’d 
have done less. What did you say his name was, Miss 
Mamy?” 

Marny turned drowsily, settling more comfortably into 
the pillows. 

“He didn’t tell me his name,” she said, sleepily, “he 
said he was called El Hakim.” 

“And what might that mean?” 

“It means a doctor, I think, but I didn’t know Arabs 
had doctors. Perhaps he has something to do with the 
Spahis—he talked French very well—perhaps he—” a big 
yawn swallowed the end of the sentence, and Ann drew 
up the coverlet with a little admonishing pat. “Never you 
bother your pretty head about him now, my lamb. Just 
go to sleep and forget all about it. And heaven send the 
man’s as good as his word and gets that dratted horse 
back,” she added, anxiously to herself as she left the 
room. 

It was late in the afternoon when she reluctantly 
aroused her mistress and set down a dainty tea tray by 
the bedside. 

“It’s four o’clock, Miss Marny, and there’s two eggs to 
your tea. I’ll see you eat every bit of it,” she announced 
cheerfully, bustling about the room and flinging back the 
shutters. Lady Geradine stretched luxuriously and then 
sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Oh, Ann, what 
fun,” she said with a laugh the old woman had not heard 
for years. “It’s like nursery days. Put heaps of cushions 
behind me and cut off the tops of the eggs. I’m simply 
famishing.” Then she paused with a square of toast half 


THE DESERT HEALER 


71 


way to her mouth and the laughter died out of her eyes. 

“Has The Caid come back?” 

Ann splashed the tea into the saucer at the sudden 
question. 

“Not yet, dearie, but its only four o’clock—and the 
train doesn’t get in until seven,” she said, inconsequently. 
Marny understood very well the meaning of her some¬ 
what obscure sentence, but she gave no sign of under¬ 
standing. It was part of the pitiful game she played that 
even Ann received no confidences and was allowed to 
make no comment on the treatment her husband meted 
out to her. Angry with herself for the words that had 
escaped unintentionally, the old woman stole a penitent 
glance at the girl who was her idol. But Marny was 
apparently only concerned with the salting of her egg. 

“The poor dear isn’t likely to come back by train,” she 
said lightly, as if the horse alone occupied her mind. 

Finishing her tea she slipped out of bed and into the 
wrapper Ann held for her. Stretching out her arms she 
patted them tenderly, and then raising them high above 
her head bent forward easily, sweeping her finger-tips 
to the ground, and straightened again slowly with a laugh 
of satisfaction. 

“I’m as right as rain, Ann,” she said, reassuringly, “not 
a bit stiff. I’ll dress for dinner now. I can’t be bothered 
to change again so soon. Bring me that white teagown 
thing I got in Paris, it’s loose and cool.” 

Too loose and too cool, thought Ann as she went with 
primly folded lips to fetch the diaphanous little garment 
that had been made to Lord Geradine’s order and which 
she herself considered neither fit nor decent for her mis- 


72 


THE DESERT HEALER 


tress to wear. A dress suitable in its sensuous appeal to 
the women with whom the Viscount chose to associate, 
but degrading to the innocent girl whom he had married. 
And when the final touches to Lady Geradine’s toilet were 
completed, Ann stood back and surveyed her handiwork 
with grim disapproval. And Marny, staring absently into 
the long mirror, caught the expression in the stern old 
eyes fixed on her and moved abruptly with a smothered 
sigh, the colour deepening in her face. The dress was 
hateful and she loathed it, but in this as in everything 
else, loyalty to her husband kept her lips closed. Even 
his questionable taste must pass undiscussed. And dis¬ 
cussion would make it no easier to bear. She had to 
submit to it as she had to submit to the man himself. 
She was not a free agent. Legally she was his wife, 
actually she was a slave to be and do at the whim of a 
capricious and tyrannical master. 

In the early days of her married life, she had tried to 
rebel, and the memory of those futile struggles was like a 
horrible nightmare, but the passing years had taught her 
wisdom and given her strength to accept what she 
revolted from and detested. 

Slipping a long chain of uncut emeralds round her neck 
she went silently out of the room. The drawing room 
she entered was more English than French in its appoint¬ 
ments, bright with gay coloured chintzes and fragrant 
with masses of flowers banked in every available space. 
She lingered by a tall basket filled with giant roses, inhal¬ 
ing their delicate perfume and gathering the cool petals 
against her hot cheeks. Then she moved slowly to glance 
at a porcelain clock ticking noisily on the mantelpiece. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


73 


Little more than an hour before Clyde might come and 
her brief holiday would be over. He rarely left her for 
so long and the days of respite had flown. With a shiver 
she lit a cigarette and began to pace the narrow room, her 
thoughts travelling back over the last five years of bitter 
misery to the day when, barely seventeen years of age, a 
child in every sense, she had grown suddenly in the space 
of a few agonising hours into womanhood, cruelly awak¬ 
ened to what it meant to be Clyde Geradine’s wife. As 
he determined to continue so had he begun. The disgust 
and loathing he inspired in her had never lessened. Her¬ 
self innately chaste, his gross coarseness and frank sensu¬ 
ality appalled her. If he had even once shown that he 
had been moved by any higher sentiment, had had any 
nobler thought beyond the purely physical attraction she 
had for him she would have tried to make allowances. 
But for him she was merely a perfectly made vigorous 
young animal by whom he hoped, as he candidly told her, 
to get the heir on whom he had set his heart. And with 
nothing to cling to, nothing to hope for, she felt only 
degradation in her association with him. His moods were 
variable as his temper was uncertain. He was made up of 
contradictions. Despite his own infidelities, infidelities 
of which she was fully aware, despite the fact that he 
deliberately paraded her beauty on every possible occasion, 
he was possessed with an insensate jealousy. Faithless 
himself he placed no trust in her faithfulness, and was 
suspicious of every mark of admiration shown her. She 
was his, he insisted, as much his property as any horse or 
dog in his stable, his to use as he would. His also, it 
seemed, to abuse and torture by every subtle mental tor- 


74 


THE DESERT HEALER 


ment his cruel nature could devise. And not mental only. 
It pleased him to know her powerless against his strength, 
it pleased him when the mood was on him to subject her 
to physical violence that his warped mind held to be with¬ 
in his right. He had bought her, body and soul he had 
bought her, and brutally he allowed her no possibility of 
ever forgetting the fact. 

Mptherless before she was old enough to know her 
loss, she had grown up in a big rambling house in an 
isolated part of the west coast of Ireland. The father 
she adored had died when she was twelve, leaving her in 
care of her brother Denis, who was ten years her senior. 
Neighbours were few and far between, their visits long 
since discouraged by the lonely, broken-hearted man who 
had lived a life of seclusion since his wife’s death. With 
no companions of her own age, with almost no associates 
of her own rank, she had spent her days in the open, rid¬ 
ing and fishing, content with the limited life she led. 
Ann’s had been the only womanly influence she had 
known, Ann who had been her mother’s nurse and then 
her own. 

And Denis, a ne’er-do-well with tastes and inclinations 
studiously hidden during his father’s lifetime, had, on suc¬ 
ceeding to his inheritance, shaken the dust of Ireland off 
his feet to seek a more exhilarating sphere of activity 
where he had successfully dissipated his patrimony, and 
incidentally fallen under the influence and into the power 
of Lord Geradine who was a past master in all the vices 
the younger man emulated. Marny had never known the 
real truth of the whole sordid story. She only knew that 
after years of absence Denis had returned, changed al- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


75 


most beyond recognition, bringing with him a stranger 
who had stayed for a fortnight in the house. She had 
hated the big domineering Englishman at sight, instinc¬ 
tively repelled, and the attention that almost from the 
first he had shown had terrified her. Then he had gone, 
and a couple of months later Denis had reappeared, more 
haggard, more careworn than before. He had told her a 
long rambling tale, most of which she had not understood, 
and had ended with a wild appeal to her to save his 
honour and the honour of the family she had been taught 
from childhood to reverence. Only by her marriage with 
Lord Geradine, it seemed, could the family name escape 
disgrace. And, ignorant of what she did, carried away 
by Denis’ eloquence, passionately jealous for the name 
that had gone untarnished for generations, she had con¬ 
sented. She had been given no time for further reflec¬ 
tion, and in spite of Ann’s horrified remonstrances and 
and pleadings she had been married almost at once. That 
was five years ago. And for five years she had endured a 
life of misery, in an alien environment, disillusioned and 
shocked. Her husband’s hold over her brother—a hold 
she had never comprehended and which had never been 
explained to her—was the means by which he compelled 
her submission in everything. And consistently she had 
done what she thought to be her duty, had striven to 
please him as far as she was able and had been loyal to 
him who had never shown loyalty to her. 

Five years—only five years 1 

With a bitter sigh she sank wearily into a big chintz 
covered Chesterfield. For a long time she lay thinking, 
almost dreaming, until at last she awoke with a sudden 


76 


THE DESERT HEALER 


sense of shock to the import of her thoughts. The AraL 
who had saved her! She could see distinctly every line 
of his tall, graceful figure, every feature of his grave, 
bronzed face. She found herself wondering again at 
the cold austerity of his expression, so different from 
the appraising glances of admiration usually accorded 
her and which made her hate the beauty that inspired 
them. He had not even appeared to know that she was 
beautiful. His sombre eyes had rested on her with com¬ 
plete indifference, almost, so it seemed to her, with dis¬ 
like. Hyper-sensitive, she had been conscious that his 
aid, his' hospitality had been given unwillingly. She 
remembered the curt impatient voice, “I do not keep you 
to please myself—” and wondered why the fact of his 
indifference seemed so suddenly to hurt her. If he had 
not been indifferent, if he had looked on her as other 
men did, what would have been her fate? She would 
have escaped one horrible peril only to fall into another 
as horrible. She had been utterly in his power, utterly 
at his mercy—the mercy of an Arab. She owed her 
honour to an Arab—and she did not even know his name! 
Why had he evaded what was a perfectly natural ques¬ 
tion, why hidden his identity under a sobriquet? Was 
he afraid that she would try to trace him, try to force 
on him some tangible proof of the gratitude he had 
refused to listen to? Her cheeks burned. What he had 
done was beyond payment. In all probability she would 
never see him again. She would have to be content with 
the meagre information he had given her, content with 
the memory of a wonderful chivalry she had never 
thought to experience and which had been a revelation. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


77 


It was as though some healing power had touched her, 
like the clean, wholesome breath of some purifying wind 
penetrating the defiling atmosphere that surrounded her, 
opening her eyes to a new conception of man’s attitude 
towards woman. The men she had hitherto met had 
been uniformly alike in taste and inclination to the hus¬ 
band who forced their society upon her. She shrank 
from them as she shrank from him with a sense of 
shame that was unendurable. Compelled to participate 
in a life she abhorred, she seemed to be on the brink of 
some loathsome pit, choked with the fetid fumes of its 
foul putrescence, steadily sinking downward into an 
abyss of horrible and terrible darkness, her whole soul 
recoiling from the moral destruction that appeared to 
loom inevitably ahead of her. What did her soul matter 
to Clyde? It was only her body he wanted. It was only 
physical admiration she saw in the eyes of his friends. 
Yesterday for the first time she had met a man who had 
ignored her sex, whose gaze had not lingered desirously 
on the fair exterior compelling a remembrance of her 
womanhood, whose proximity had not moved her to hot 
discomfort, but had given instead a sense of security 
and trust. With him she had felt safe—safe and curi¬ 
ously unstrange. The hours spent in his tent, the long 
ride through the night at his side, would never be effaced 
from her memory. He had given her a glimpse of a 
finer, cleaner manhood than in her unhappy experience 
she had ever known. In some undefinable way he seemed 
to have restored the self-respect that year by year she 
had felt being torn from her. And he was an Arab! 
An Arab. She whispered it again, lying very still on 


78 


THE DESERT HEALER 


the sofa, her fingers twining and untwining restlessly 
about the emerald chain. What did his nationality 
matter—it was the man himself who counted. The man 
who had shown her a nobler type than she had ever met 
with, the man who had shown her that all strength was 
not merciless, that all men did not look on women merely 
as their natural prey. And as with this desert man, so 
must it be with many men of her own race. Her brood¬ 
ing eyes darkened with sudden anguish, and she flung 
on to her face burying her head in the silken cushions, 
fighting the agony of misery and revolt that swept over 
her. Why had she been destined for such a fate? Why 
had it been her lot to be thrown only amongst those 
whose vileness debased the sacred image in which they 
were made? Why had she been given no chance of the 
happiness that must be the portion of luckier women 
than she? If it had been otherwise, if for her marriage 
had meant not only physical union but a higher, holier 
companionship of mind and spirit, how gladly would 
she have yielded to a passion hallowed by love, to pos¬ 
session tempered by consideration. If she could have 
loved and respected where now she only obeyed and 
endured! A marriage such as hers was ignoble, degrad¬ 
ing, horrible beyond all thought. If she had known 
what it would mean, would she have had the courage to 
face what she had done in ignorance? She sat up, push¬ 
ing the heavy hair off her forehead, staring into space 
with pain-filled eyes. Yes, she would have done it again 
in spite of everything. Not for love of Denis, she had 
never loved him—in childhood he had bullied her, in girl¬ 
hood he had neglected her, and on the threshold of her 


THE DESERT HEALER 


79 


womanhood he had made her pay the price of his in¬ 
famy—but for love of the name and family that meant 
so much to her. And because of that, because her 
wretchedness was the result of her own willing sacri¬ 
fice she must struggle on as she had struggled all these 
five terrible years, beaten and hopeless, but striving to 
fulfill her part of the marriage vows her husband treated 
so lightly. But, oh, dear God, she had never known it 
would be so hard! Harder now than ever. Why did 
her thoughts turn so persistently to the man who had 
saved her? Why did the recollection of his chivalry 
and generosity seem to make her feel so much more 
acutely the misery of her life? Was it only the con¬ 
trast to the man whose wife she was? She hid her face 
in her hands with a sharp little cry of fear. It was 
more than that. Quite suddenly she realised it—the full 
meaning of what had happened to her, the full signifi¬ 
cance of the thoughts that were crowding in her brain. 
She shivered, clasping her hands closer over her eyes. 
Why, oh why had this come to her—had she not already 
enough to bear! And if she had not been bound, if she 
were free, it would make no difference. He was an 
Arab! Then her self-control gave way and she fell 
back among the cushions, dry-eyed but shaking with 
emotion. “I wouldn’t have cared,” she wailed, “I wouldn’t 
care what he was.” 

But his indifference had been complete—and she was 
married! She wrung her hands in an agony of shame 
and horror. She was married. She was Clyde’s wife. 
To even think of another man was sin. She must tear 
from her heart the image that in a few short hours had 


80 


THE DESERT HEALER 


become so deeply implanted. She would never see him 
again. With quivering lips she whispered it, and writhed 
at the strange new sense of desolation that came upon 
her. A companionship that had been so brief, a passing 
stranger of an alien race whose name she did not even 
know—and yet the world seemed suddenly empty. She 
pondered it, ashamed and vaguely frightened. It was 
because she had trusted him, she thought with a pitiful 
attempt at self-justification, and because she was tired 
and overwrought. Unnerved, she had allowed his kind¬ 
ness to make too deep an impression. 

Later, when strength was given her again, she would 
forget—not him—but the wickedness that filled her heart 
tonight. She moved listlessly on the sofa, mentally ex¬ 
hausted, too tired almost to care that The Caid was still 
missing, that very soon her husband might be returning 
and she would have to make her lame explanation and 
face his inevitable wrath. And for once, honesty com¬ 
pelled her to admit it, he would have good cause for 
anger. The horse was valuable, and she had had no 
right to take him so far from Algiers unattended. It 
was asking for trouble in a land of horsemen who stole 
where they could not buy and who would consider the 
theft of a noted stallion, that a foreigner purposed to 
remove from the country, as an act of merit rather than 
otherwise. All her young life she had ridden alone. But 
it would be useless to try and explain to Clyde the over¬ 
powering desire for solitude that had driven her out 
yesterday morning without the groom whose constant 
presence put a period to her enjoyment and took from 
her all the pleasure of her rides. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


81 


The clock on the mantelpiece struck seven. She hardly- 
glanced at it. If Clyde did come, the train would prob¬ 
ably be late. It usually was. And for nearly an hour 
more she lay still, striving to concentrate her tired mind 
on trivialities, becoming momentarily drowsier as the 
room grew darker. She was nearly asleep when the 
sound of a loud blustering voice echoing from the hall 
sent her bolt upright on the sofa, her heart beating vio¬ 
lently, her wide eyes fixed apprehensively on the door. 

She stumbled to her feet as he flung into the room, a 
tall heavily-built man whose big frame seemed to almost 
fill the aperture as he stood for a moment in the entrance 
peering for her in the dim light. 

“What the devil are you sittin’ in the dark for?” The 
truculent tone gave her the key to the mood in which 
he had returned and her heart beat faster as she heard 
him fumbling at the electric switchboard by the door. 
Then the room flashed into brilliance as he swept his 
hand downward with an impatient jerk, and she blinked 
at the sudden glare of light with a nervous little laugh. 

Without waiting for an answer he strode towards her 
and caught her in his arms with the rough masterfulness 
that was habitual with him. “Been asleep—tired of wait¬ 
ing for me? You look like a baby with your hair all 
ruffled and your cheeks the colour of a two-year-old,” 
he said, with a short laugh of satisfaction, drawing her 
closer and bending to kiss her. The hot breath fanning 
her face was rank with spirits and it took all her reso¬ 
lution to suppress the repugnance his nearness caused 
her, and meet the heavy eyes that glowed with sudden 
passion as he crushed his mouth on hers. She was trem- 


82 


THE DESERT HEALER 


bling when at last he released her but he did not seem 
to notice her agitation. He laughed again, looking her 
slowly up and down with the frank appraisement of a 
proprietor. “I wanted that,” he remarked complacently, 
“a fortnight’s a bit too much without your charmin’ 
society, my dear. You’ll come along too the next time. 
And the trip wasn’t worth it. No decent heads worth 
speaking about, not a sight nor smell of a panther, and 
that ass Malec mucked up the arrangements as I knew 
he would—a rotten show from start to finish. And the 
train was nearly an hour late getting into Algiers, waited 
an infernal time at a potty little wayside station for 
some dam’ chief or other to get aboard with most of his 
tribe. Though we were going to be there all night. 
Can’t think why they let the beggars travel by train. 
I’m as hot as hell and my throat’s on fire. I want a 
drink and I want a bath. Tell ’em to have dinner ready 
in half-an-hour.” And with a parting curse at the 
inefficiency of the Algerian railway service he flung out 
of the room as he had flung into it. 

With her hand pressed tightly against the lips that 
were still quivering from his kisses Marny stood strug¬ 
gling to regain her composure and starting nervously 
as she listened to the angry bellowing that came from 
her husband’s dressing room. But she drew a swift little 
breath of relief at the thought that he obviously knew 
nothing as yet of The Caid’s disappearance, that it was 
not any fault of. hers but only the non-success of the 
shooting trip that had annoyed him. If she could only 
keep the disastrous knowledge from him until tomorrow 
—the horse might be back by then. She smothered a 


THE DESERT HEALER 


83 


sigh and, ringing the bell, gave the order for dinner. His 
rough handling had further disarranged her ruffled hair 
and while she smoothed it into order she stared at her¬ 
self in the mirror with hostile eyes. 

He had made her a coward—would he end by making 
her a liar as well? But at least she need not lie to 
herself. It was cowardice that made her defer telling 
him the story of her mishap. It was cowardice that 
had made her choose the hateful dress she was wearing 
tonight. She turned away with a gesture of disgust and 
self scorn, and fell to pacing the room until he joined her 
again. 

During dinner her own silence passed unheeded while 
he launched into a detailed and grumbling account of 
the expedition that had fallen far short of his expecta¬ 
tions. He cursed the country and its people and the 
sporting facilities with equal impartiality and with a 
wealth of highly coloured language that was peculiarly 
his own, breaking off frequently to swear at the servants 
who were, notwithstanding, doing their work quickly and 
well. She knew that he must have been drinking heavily 
during the day, but his thirst seemed unquenchable and 
as she watched him gulp down whisky after whisky, she 
wondered with a feeling of dread what form the inevit¬ 
able reaction would take. His rages were easier to 
bear than the moods of maudlin sentimentality that sick¬ 
ened her. 

Contrary to his usual custom he followed her into the 
drawing room when dinner was finished, and lighting a 
cigar took up a commanding position before the flower- 
filled fireplace with his hands thrust deep in the pockets 


84 


THE DESERT HEALER 


of his dinner jacket, watching her through half-veiled 
eyes until coffee was brought. 

“You’re dam’ pretty tonight, Marny,” he remarked 
condescendingly as he took the fragile cup she held out 
to him. “I flatter myself that dress was a stroke of 
genius,” he added, looking with no great favour at the 
coffee he raised to his lips. A moment later cup and 
contents went crashing into the flower pots behind him. 

“Filth!” he ejaculated disgustedly, “if that chap can’t 
make decent coffee he’ll have to go.” And consigning 
the cook to perdition he lounged across the room to a 
chair and turning to the tray-laden table beside him 
splashed neat cognac wrathfully into a glass. Marny 
put down her own cup without answering. There was 
nothing wrong with the coffee, it was perfectly made 
as usual, but expostulation was useless with Clyde in 
his present humour. And he seemed to expect no com¬ 
ment. Swallowing the brandy with slow enjoyment, he 
refilled the glass and, stretching his long limbs lazily, 
turned to her with the question for which she had been 
waiting all evening. 

“Tanner been behaving—beasts all right?” he rapped, 
with a glance at the clock on the mantlepiece. And 
fearful that, even at this late hour, he might be medi¬ 
tating a visit to the stables, for the first time in her life 
she lied, her fingers clutching at the soft cushions of the 
sofa till they grew stiff and numb. 

“Tanner has been exemplary. The horses are splendid,” 
she said with forced easiness. And her answer apparently 
satisfied him for he grunted approvingly and settled 
more comfortably into his chair. For some time 


THE DESERT HEALER 


85 


he did not speak, and she lay still striving to subdue the 
rapid beating of her heart, acutely conscious of the 
searching eyes that rarely left her face. But when the 
coffee tray had been removed he stirred restlessly. “Any 
letters?” 

Accustomed to doing for him what he was too lazy 
to do for himself, she rose and fetched the pile of cor¬ 
respondence that had accumulated during his absence, 
and, going back to the sofa, watched him tearing open 
and throwing aside letter after after letter until she could 
keep silent no longer. 

“Aren’t you going to the Club?” 

He laughed shortly. “Not me,” he said, with a glance 
that made her flinch. “You seem to forget I’ve been 
away for a fortnight. My wife’s society is good enough 
for me tonight.” 

With an involuntary tremor she turned her head that 
he might not see the loathing she knew was written on 
her face, and picked up a novel with shaking fingers. She 
had not expected that he would go to the Club, and only 
a passionate longing to shorten the hours she must spend 
alone with him made her propose it. Her lips trembled 
as she turned the pages of the book mechanically, not 
reading but listening to his angry comments on the letters 
that were evidently not pleasing to him. He flung the 
last one from him with a snarl. 

“That charming brother of yours is asking for trouble! 
Overrun his allowance again and has the cheek to write 
and ask for a cheque by return. I’ll see him in Hades 
first. I’ve warned him before the allowance is ample and 
that I wouldn’t raise it by a single halfpenny. Seems to 


86 


THE DESERT HEALER 


think I’m made of money,” he added, kicking the letter 
petulantly. 

The book slipped to the floor as Marny sat up with a 
jerk, staring at him uncomprehendingly. 

“His allowance—Denis—I don’t understand,” she said 
slowly, with a puzzled frown. 

He looked at her with a curious smile. “Don’t you, 
my dear?” he said unpleasantly. “Neither does Denis, 
apparently. No Irishman seems to understand the value 
of money, and I suppose Denis is only conforming to type 
when he fails to understand that the yearly allowance I 
make him has got to last a year. He can whistle for 
what he wants now, I shan’t give it to him.” 

“But, Clyde, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” 
she gasped, “the allowance you make him—why do you 
make Denis an allowance? Why can’t he live on his own 
money?” 

Lord Geradine smiled again. 

“What money?” he drawled. 

She jerked her head impatiently. 

“His own money, the estate money, the rents of Castle 
Fergus. What he—what we have always lived on. Why 
can’t he manage on that?” 

“Because the Castle Fergus rents are paid to me,” 
replied her husband shortly. She looked at him blankly, 
putting her hand to her head with a gesture of bewilder¬ 
ment. 

“To you,” she faltered, “the Castle Fergus rents are 
paid to you? But why—what have you to do with Castle 
Fergus? Oh, Clyde, I don’t know what you mean, truly 
I don’t.” 


THE DESERT HEALER 


87 


Lord Geradine heaved himself sideways in his chair 
and poured out a whisky with slow deliberation. “You 
knew your brother was in a hole when I married you,” he 
said at last, with a certain irritation in his voice. She 
winced, and the blood rushed into her white face. “I 
knew that,” she said shakily, “but I didn’t know it had 
anything to do with money. I thought it was something 
—something horrible he had done,” she added with a 
shiver, her voice breaking pitifully. 

Geradine emptied the glass and pushed it from him 
with a hard laugh. “The one sometimes follows from 
the other,” he said contemptuously, “it was so with Denis. 
He ran through a very tidy fortune in an uncommonly 
short space of time, and then he did what you are pleased 
to call ‘something horrible’. I don’t set up to be a model 
of virtue myself but there are some things I jib at, and 
I’m damned if I’d soil my hands with the dirty game he 
played. But he played it once too often when I came on 
the scenes. He landed himself in the devil of a mess and 
jolly nearly ended in jail. But for my own reasons that 
didn’t suit me, and he was dam’ glad to take the terms I 
offered him. He wanted his liberty and money enough 
to make it amusing—I wanted you. And there you have 
it,” he concluded with brutal candour. 

She sat quite still, looking at him fixedly her face 
colourless, trying to realize the meaning of what he had 
told her. At the moment she hardly knew which she 
hated most, the brother who had held his sister so cheaply 
or the man who had been content to drive so shameful a 
bargain to obtain what he wanted. 

“He sold me to you,” she said at last. And the scorn 


88 


THE DESERT HEALER 


in her voice sent him out of his chair with an oath that 
made her shudder. “Oh, for God’s sake don’t make a 
tragedy out of it,” he cried angrily. “In any case it’s 
ancient history. You knew that Denis had a reason for 
pressing our marriage. I don’t know what fancy tale he 
told you, and I don’t care. We are married and there’s 
an end of it. And there’s no earthly need to cut up so 
rough about it. You didn’t do so badly for yourself, you 
blessed little innocent—and I’m not complaining. Don’t 
be a little fool, Marny. I mayn’t be a saint but I’m dam’ 
fond of you. I wanted you the first minute I laid eyes 
on you, and I generally get what I want,” he added with 
a complacent laugh, dropping down on the sofa beside 
her. Then his voice changed as he slid his hand slowly up 
the soft cool arm under the loose sleeve of her teagown. 
“I’ve been wanting you pretty badly this last fortnight,” 
he whispered thickly, and flung his arms around her with 
sudden violence. For a moment he held her, trembling 
and helpless in his fierce embrace, and she felt the heavy 
beating of his heart as he stared down at her with hot desire 
flaming in his red flecked eyes. Then he laughed again, 
a laugh that made her want to shriek, that made 
every nerve in her body quiver with passionate revolt, 
and pushed her from him. 

“Run along,” he said quickly, “and don’t keep me 
waiting the infernal age you usually do. Tell that old 
woman to clear out in double quick time if she values her 
place.” 

Beyond the door, free from his watching eyes, she 
buried her face in her hands with a groan of agony. For 
how many more years, oh, merciful God, must she endure 


THE DESERT HEALER 


89 


this life of horrible bondage? Would she never be 
free—never escape from his brutality till death released 
her. If. she could only die—but she was too strong to 
die. Misery did not kill. She would live—live until the 
beauty that was all he cared for faded, live until he had 
drained from her the strength and vitality that had 
attracted him. And afterwards? For her there was no 
afterwards, no hope, no consolation. There was only the 
present with its difficulties and suffering. The present! 
She started nervously. How long had she stood there? 
With a convulsive shudder she went swiftly across the 
dim lit hall. 

And as she passed her husband’s dressing room the 
door opened suddenly and she came face to face with his 
Arab valet. She had not seen the man since his return 
and, forcing a smile to her trembling lips, she nodded to 
him with the kindly greeting she gave invariably to every 
member of the household. But as he turned to her the 
words died in an inarticulate gasp and she halted abruptly, 
staring with horror at the terrible mark that, stretching 
from forehead to chin, disfigured his face—a mark 
that could only have been caused by the slashing cut of a 
powerfully driven whip. “Malec—” she cried aghast. 
But with a quick salaam the man drew back and, slipping 
past her, vanished down the passage with the lithe noise¬ 
lessness of his race. She stood as if turned to stone, 
breathing heavily, her clenched hands pressed against 
her throbbing temples, sickened by what she had seen. 
“How can he—oh, how can he?” she moaned. Then 
with a backward glance of fearful apprehension she fled 
panic-stricken to the door of her own room. But there, 


90 


THE DESERT HEALER 


with a tremendous effort of will, she regained her self 
command and went in quietly, smiling with apparent nat¬ 
uralness as Ann turned from the open window to meet 
her. The old woman’s face was radiant. She almost 
ran across the room. 

“Miss Marny, dear, it’s all right,” she breathed eagerly. 
“Tanner’s just been in. The horse was brought back 
half an hour ago and he’s not a penny the worse.” 

For an instant Marny looked at her strangely. Then 
she sank into a chair with a gasp of relief, and stretched 
out her hands tremblingly. 

“Ann—oh, Annl” she whispered. 


CHAPTER IV 


At the close of a hot afternoon, about three weeks 
after his return to Algiers, Carew was sitting in the 
Governor General’s private room at the Winter Palace. 

Staring out of the window, a neglected cigarette droop¬ 
ing between his lips, he was listening without attending 
to the faint strains of the Zouave band echoing from the 
Place du Gouvernement, drumming absently with his fin¬ 
gers on the table before him which was littered with maps 
and plans and scattered typewritten sheets. For the best 
part of two hours he had been repeating the story of his 
last journey, and the hardly won concession for the benefit 
of an interested and detail-loving representative of the 
Ministry of the Interior who was returning the next day 
to Paris after an extensive and carefully shepherded tour 
through the northern provinces of Algeria. 

Carew’s mission successfully terminated and his report 
duly handed in to headquarters, he had had no wish to 
be further identified with the enterprise. He was glad 
to be of use to the Administration; anxious always, when 
opportunity offered, to assist in promoting a better under¬ 
standing between the rulers of the country and its native 
part of his life’s work. He was not inclined to magnify 
the importance of what he did and he was actuated by no 
desire for personal gain or advantage. He was content 
to give his help when it was required and let others take 
the kudos. He worked solely for love of the country and 
admiration of its administrators. The Governor General 
91 


92 


THE DESERT HEALER 


and the Commander-in-Chief, both hard-working con¬ 
scientious men who governed a difficult country with tact 
and discretion, were his personal friends, and he consid¬ 
ered himself amply rewarded if his own endeavors in any 
way eased the burden of their responsibilities. 

But today, for the first time, he had yielded to the 
often expressed wish of General Sanois—who admin¬ 
istered the particular part of the Sahara under discussion 
—that his really valuable aid should be more intimately 
known to the home authorities. 

The interview had passed off successfully. The illus¬ 
trious visitor had shown a wide knowledge of and a deep 
personal interest in the affairs of the country which had 
gone far to lessen the instinctive feeling of hostility with 
which the two men primarily responsible for its well¬ 
being, had viewed his advent. He had listened carefully 
to Carew’s story, gripping the major points of importance 
sanely and intelligently, and had been loud in his 
approval of the work done. With Gallic courtesy and 
enthusiasm he had congratulated all concerned, expressing 
his own and his country’s indebtedness to the three 
men he addressed in a felicitous little speech that 
hinted at much he did not say outright, and, with a final 
interchange of compliments, had at last betaken himself 
to his waiting carriage whither the Governor and General 
Sanois had accompanied him. 

And Carew, left for a few moments alone in the cool 
pleasant room, had fallen into a profound reverie that 
was in no way connected with the events of the after¬ 
noon. 

The sound of approaching voices roused him and he 


THE DESERT HEALER 


93 


turned reluctantly from the window as the stout, smiling 
little Governor bustled in, followed by his tall, grave¬ 
faced army colleague, and a slim, delicate-looking youth 
who went silently to a desk in a far corner. 

The Governor dropped into a chair with a little grunt, 
mopped his heated forehead vigorously and beamed with 
evident satisfaction on his companions. 

“That’s over,” he remarked in a tone of relief. “I 
usually have a crise de nerjs after these visits. But this 
one was better than most, Dieu mercil Some of them— 
oh, la I lal” He broke off with a comical grimace, flour¬ 
ishing his handkerchief expressively. Then with a shrug 
and a gay laugh he tapped Carew’s knee confidentially 
with a podgy forefinger. 

“Everything goes & merveille, my dear Carew. Our 
friend is charmed with all he has seen, has been pleased 
to compliment me on the state of the country, and has 
swallowed all the extravagant demands of our good 
Sanois here without turning a hair. Providing he 
remembers all he has promised, providing his interest is 
as great as he represents, there should be speedily 
allowed to us some alterations in administration we have 
long asked for in vain. Our hands have been tied too 
tightly, voyez-vous. He sees the necessity for loosening 
them somewhat. I am not expecting the millennium—I 
have lived too long to expect anything very much, par¬ 
ticularly of politicians—but I am hopeful, decidedly hope¬ 
ful. If it were not so exhausting I might even allow 
myself to become enthusiastic. But I gave up enthusi¬ 
asms when I came to Algeria—so very detrimental to 
the nerves.” Again he demonstrated languidly with his 


94 


THE DESERT HEALER 


handkerchief, and then patted his chest significantly. 
“And some little decorations will probably follow, hein? 
We need not attach too much importance to them, per¬ 
haps, but they are pleasant to receive, oh, yes, decidedly 
very pleasant to receive.” 

“For me, I would rather receive the extra battery I 
asked for,” growled the General. 

The little Governor looked up at him with an expres¬ 
sion of pained protest. “Ah, you soldiers—you and your 
guns! Brute force, brute force—that's all you think of,” 
he murmured reprovingly. Then he smiled again, waving 
his hands as though dismissing the unpleasant idea his 
colleague’s words suggested. 

“You will dine with me tonight,” he said genially, “both 
of you? We must celebrate the occasion. And after¬ 
wards, perhaps, for an hour or two, the opera? Not 
very amusing but—” he shrugged whimsically and offered 
Carew his cigarette case. 

For a few minutes longer they talked of the possibil¬ 
ities of the new regime in prospect, and then the General 
rose to go with a vague reference to a mass of correspond¬ 
ence awaiting his attention. 

“Are you coming my way?” he asked, turning to the 
Englishman. But Carew shook his head. 

“I’ve an appointment in the Casbar this evening,” he 
said, shuffling some papers together and slipping them 
into his breast pocket. 

Sanois laughed grimly and looked up from the sword- 
belt he was buckling with a suspicion of eagerness in his 
keen eyes. “It would be indiscreet to ask with whom, 
I presume? You know more about the Casbar than I 


THE DESERT HEALER 


95 


do,” he said, almost grudgingly. “You’ve friends every¬ 
where, Carew. Some of them I’d like to lay my hands' 
on,” he added meaningly. 

Carew smiled faintly. “Possibly,” he said coolly, “but 
my ‘friends’ are useful. And until they let me down I 
can’t very well help you to any information you may 
want concerning them. That was agreed,” he added, his 
voice hardening slightly. 

“Word of an Englishman, eh?” said the General with 
another grim laugh, and stalked off. 

The Governor looked at the closing door with his 
smiling features puckered up disapprovingly. “An excel¬ 
lent fellow, but blood thirsty—very blood thirsty,” he 
murmured, with the least little touch of regret in his 
voice as if he deprecated an attitude with which in reality 
he thoroughly concurred. 

But Carew’s thoughts were not concerned ‘with the 
man who had just left the room. 

Crossing to the open window he stood for some time 
without speaking, his hands plunged deep in his jacket 
pockets, scowling at the palms in the garden beneath. 
And accustomed to his frequent and protracted silences 
his host, pleasantly somnolent with the heat and tired 
with the excitement of the day, made no attempt to force 
conversation. Stretched comfortably in a capacious arm¬ 
chair he toyed idly with a cigarette and sipped the 
vermouth his guest had declined, thoroughly content with 
himself and the world at large, until Carew’s voice broke 
in suddenly on thoughts that were lightly alternating 
between the happy results of the afternoon’s interview and 
the gastronomic delights of the coming dinner. 


96 


THE DESERT HEALER 


“There is a compatriot of mine, a certain Viscount 
Geradine, who has de Granier’s villa this winter—can 
you tell me anything about him?” 

The cherubic little Governor looked vaguely embar¬ 
rassed. “Nothing of very much good, I am afraid,” he 
said slowly, “he is not, unfortunately, an ornament to 
your usually so distinguished aristocracy. I personally 
know very little of him. But one hears things—one hears 
things,” he repeated uncomfortably. 

For a moment Carew hesitated, then: 

“As—what?” he asked bluntly. Surprised at the ques¬ 
tion, the Frenchman shot him a look of undisguised 
astonishment. It was unlike Carew to be curious about 
anybody, and in all the years he had known him he had 
never heard him even refer to a member of the English 
community. 

“Patrice knows more about these things than I do,” he 
fenced, lighting a fresh cigarette with delicate precision. 
And turning to the pale youth in the corner who seemed 
absorbed in his secretarial duties, he raised his voice 
slightly. 

“My good Patrice, can you tell us anything about the 
Englishman, Lord Geradine, who is living at the Villa 
des Ombres?” 

The young man looked up quickly with a laugh which 
showed that his attention was not so wholly centered on 
his work as it appeared to be. 

“I can tell you what happened chez Fatima last night, 
mon oncle,” he replied promptly, with a boyish grin that 
was faintly malicious. But the Governor raised a plump 
white hand in horrified protest. “I beg of you—no,” he 


THE DESERT HEALER 


97 


said hurriedly. “Spare us the disgusting details, mon 
cher. Generalities will be amply sufficient, amply suffi¬ 
cient.” 

His nephew shrugged acquiescence. “As you will,” he 
said complacently, “but it was amusing—oh, yes, dis¬ 
tinctly amusing,” he mimicked, with the assurance of a 
highly privileged individual. And for five minutes he 
sketched with racy frankness the character and failings 
of the man who had won for himself an unenviable repu¬ 
tation even in a not too straight-laced society. It was an 
unsavoury revelation that provoked little exclamations 
of disgust from the visibly distressed Governor, but Carew 
listened with apparent indifference to the delinquen¬ 
cies of his fellow-countryman. “—a drunkard and 
a bully,” concluded the attache, ticking off the final accusa¬ 
tions on his fingers as if he were tabulating them 
for a formal process. “And married,” he added with a 
burst of indignation, “married, imaginez-vous, to a beauti¬ 
ful young girl with the face of an angel—” 

“Yes, yes, quite so,” interrupted his uncle dryly, “they 
usually are married, ces gens la, to a beautiful young 
girl with the face of an angel! But we are not discussing 
Lady Geradine, my good Patrice. Not a pleasant char¬ 
acter, I fear,” he added, turning deprecatingly to Carew 
as if apologising for his nephew’s outspoken comments, 
“but rich, immensely rich, I understand. If it is the 
question of a horse, perhaps—” he suggested tentatively, 
as a probable reason for Carew’s inquiry suddenly 
occurred to him. But Carew shook his head with a curt 
gesture of disdain. 

“I value my horses too highly to sell them to a man 


98 


THE DESERT HEALER 


of that type,” he said shortly, and took leave without 
vouchsafing any explanation of his curiosity. 

Outside in the Place du Gouvernement he glanced at 
his watch as he turned his steps toward the native quar¬ 
ter. It was later than he had imagined. He would have 
to hurry to keep his appointment and get back to his own 
villa in time to dress for the dinner the Governor had 
planned so gleefully. Heedless of the traffic, too familiar 
with the varied types to even glance at the jostling crowd 
of cosmopolitan humanity about him, he strode through 
the busy streets with a heavy scowl on his face, immersed 
in his own thoughts. What on earth had made him 
ask the Governor that idiotic question? What on 
earth did the fellow matter to him! If the voluble young 
attache’s story was true—and Patrice Lemaire was a 
social butterfly who knew everybody and everything in 
Algiers—he must be a pretty average blackguard. And 
if he were—what business was it of his? It mattered 
not one particle to him if the tenant of de Granier’s villa 
was a devil from hell or a saint from heaven. If the 
girl had married a scoundrel it was her own look-out. 
It was of no moment to him. He had no interest in 
either her or her husband. He had been forced to help 
her in her exigency, but the affair was over and done 
with—thank heaven. 

Finished as far as he was concerned when he had been 
fortunate enough to get her horse back, which he had 
done far sooner than he had expected. It had been a 
stroke of luck, that second chance meeting with Abdul 
el Dhib. Carew smiled despite himself as he remem¬ 
bered the wily horse stealer’s discomforted curses when 


THE DESERT HEALER 


99 


he reluctantly surrendered the stolen stallion which he 
had already mentally disposed of at considerable profit 
to a Sheik in the south who paid well and asked no ques¬ 
tions. But it had been touch and go, half-an-hour later 
and he would have missed him. With what result? 
Quite suddenly he seemed to be looking into a pair of 
wide, blue eyes, strained and dark with agonised terror, 
and he flung his shoulders back angrily, cursing the trick 
of memory that had brought the girl’s white face before 
him with vivid distinctness. For years he had never con¬ 
sciously looked at a woman. Why did this woman’s 
face haunt him so persistently? He had no wish to 
remember her, he hoped never to see her again, but for 
the last three weeks the remembrance of her had been 
a nightmare. The tranquillity of mind he had won after 
years of mental struggle had been torn from him, first 
by the coming of Micky Meredith and then by the circum¬ 
stance that had flung this unfortunate girl across his 
path. The quiet villa that for so long had been his haven 
of rest seemed now neither restful nor solitary. It was 
peopled by shadowy figures that crowded day and night 
upon his thoughts, breaking habits that had become 
second nature and stirring him painfully to the recollec¬ 
tion of emotions he had long since deliberately cut out 
of his life. He was in the grip of a tremendous revolt 
that acted equally on mind and body. He seemed, for 
the second time in his forty years, to be facing a crisis 
that was overwhelming. He tried to analyse dispassion¬ 
ately the agitation of mind that had taken so strong a 
hold on him, to probe honestly for the reason of the 
strange unrest that filled him. But self-analysis brought 


100 


THE DESERT HEALER 


him no nearer to an understanding of his feelings, 
brought him no kind of alleviation. 

And yet, in reality, there was only one solution, he 
argued doggedly as he made his way through the narrow 
streets, a solution that was simple enough, ample enough 
in all conscience—if he had only sense enough to leave 
it at that. It was, it could only be, reaction from the 
sudden awakening of the old pain, the old memories he 
had thought done with forever. There was no other 
possible construction to put upon his state of mind—he 
would allow no other construction. And yet, the humili¬ 
ation of it! That the chance meeting with an old friend 
should move him so strongly; that he should be fool 
enough, weak enough to permit himself to brood over 
the past he had buried so many years before. Had he 
not even yet conquered the moral cowardice that in the 
early days of his sorrow had driven him from England 
and made him avoid association with his fellow country¬ 
men rather than face the scandal that would always be 
connected with his name. It had been rank cowardice. 
And he was a coward still, it appeared, too cowardly 
even to be honest with himself. 

His face hardened as a wave of self-disgust passed 
over him. And wrenching his thoughts resolutely from 
the morbid introspection to which he had given way he 
forced his attention to the immediate matter in hand. 

And as he plunged deeper into the heart of the Casbar 
he thought with a slight feeling of amusement of General 
Sanois’ parting words for the astute old Arab who 
awaited his coming was distinctly one of those “friends” 
the General yearned to lay his hands on. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


101 


Turning from the steep street he was ascending, he 
entered a gloomy alley of squalid, sinister-looking houses 
and walked slowly along the narrow footway, counting 
the closed doors carefully as he went. 

The house before which he eventually halted was, if 
possible, more sinister, more wretched-looking than the 
rest, the cracked walls bulging ominously in places and 
stained with leperous-like patches where the plaster had 
fallen off, the twisted iron balcony that projected a few 
feet above his head clinging by what seemed a miracle 
to the crumbling fabric from which it threatened 
momentarily to detach itself. There was no knocker on 
the nail-studded door, and the tiny grille was closed, but 
Carew had not expected an open welcome and he was 
too well versed in the ways of the Casbar to advertise 
his presence by any noisy demonstration. Though appar¬ 
ently deserted, he knew that life was teeming behind 
the seemingly empty walls. The whole street bore the 
same abandoned tenantless appearance, but he was well 
aware that unseen peeping eyes had followed his leisurely 
progress from the moment he had set foot on the filthy 
cobble stones that were damp and reeking with undrained 
refuse. He knew that he was expected, but it was 
not his custom to make visits of ceremony to the 
Casbar in European dress, and, an unfamiliar figure, in 
all likelihood, some minutes would elapse before the door 
opened to receive him. It was probable that his coming 
was watched for from behind the close lattice-work of 
the forlornly drooping little balcony and he moved 
further out into the street that he might be more plainly 
seen, lighting a cigarette as he set himself to wait until 


102 


THE DESERT HEALER 


the hidden watcher should satisfy himself of the visitor’s 
identity. And the cigarette was smoked through before 
he heard the dull clank of heavy bars being removed. 
Still with no show of haste he sauntered to the door that 
opened narrowly to admit him and passed into gloom 
that became absolute blackness as the faint light, filtering 
in from without, was shut off by the closing of the 
entrance. Again he heard the rattle of formidable bolts, 
then a hand touched his sleeve and he was led along an 
interminable passage that curved and twisted tortuously. 
It was impossible in the darkness to form any idea of 
the way he was being conducted and with the frequent 
turnings he speedily lost all sense of bearing. He only 
knew that the house he had entered was certainly not 
the one in which he would eventually find himself. That 
the passage occasionally widened into rooms was appar¬ 
ent for he could feel the difference in the atmosphere, 
and his hand outstretched to the dank wall beside him 
met from time to time with only space. But his silent 
guide moved forward unhesitatingly with a sure step 
that made Carew wonder suddenly if he was blind. 

Dumb also, it would appear, for he made no answer 
to the one remark addressed to him. 

A doorkeeper who was a deaf mute and blind, a mys¬ 
terious building which was approached by devious ways 
and secret passages—Carew’s lips twitched with amuse¬ 
ment. To him the situation was sufficiently ludicrous, 
though to one less sure of his welcome, less acquainted 
with the way of the people, there might have been more 
than a suggestion of unpleasantness in this curious 
reception. It was all so typically eastern, so fraught with 


THE DESERT HEALER 


103 


childish intrigue and suspicion. The wily old Arab who, 
after years of absence, had ventured into Algiers again 
for cogent reasons of his own was evidently taking no 
chances of a surprise visit from the authorities who were 
presumably unaware of his return. That he had come 
himself directly from the Palace and from the company 
of General Sanois was a humorous coincidence that 
made Carew smile again. 

His eyes were just beginning to become accustomed to 
the darkness when the guide’s fingers pressing on his 
arm brought him to a sudden stop and he waited without 
moving while more bolts were removed and a tiny door 
swung inward revealing a narrow winding staircase 
which was lit by a solitary earthenware lamp placed in 
a niche in the wall. Seen by the dim light his conductor 
proved to be a powerful negro of gigantic height, blind 
as he had thought. And feeling more than ever that he 
had stepped into an episode from the Arabian Nights, 
Carew followed him up the staircase to a door that was 
covered with a curtain of matchless embroidery. He 
was ushered into a room which, for sumptuousness of 
furnishing and barbaric splendour, he had never seen 
equalled. The rugs and hangings were priceless, the 
divans and mats gorgeous with vivid colourings, and the 
many lamps of beaten silver, lit already, for the daylight 
was excluded by thick curtains, were finer even than 
those which hung in the mauresque hall of his own villa. 
The atmosphere was stifling and heavy with the sweet 
pungent scent of incense. 

Blinking at the sudden light he hesitated on the 
threshold for an instant and then went forward to meet 


104 


THE DESERT HEALER 


the superbly-dressed Arab who rose quickly from a heap 
of cushions to greet him with unusually demonstrative 
expressions of pleasure. 

Their last meeting had been under very different cir¬ 
cumstances, circumstances attendant on the intertribal 
warfare that waged perpetually between the belligerent 
Arabs of the far south. Travelling in a district that was 
new to him, Carew had become involved in a bid for 
supremacy between two powerful chiefs which had 
ended in victory for the one who was now greeting him 
with such wealth of flowery hyperbole—a victory that 
at the time it had seemed impossible he could live to 
enjoy. In the course of his wanderings, Carew had seen 
many appalling sights and had attended to wounds that 
appeared well-nigh incurable, but never in the whole of 
his experience had he attempted to restore a body so 
horribly mangled and broken. For weeks he had wrestled 
to save the chief’s life and it had been mainly owing to 
his care, though helped by a magnificent constitution and 
a passionate desire to live, that the Sheik had eventually 
recovered to swear eternal friendship with the man who 
had literally snatched him from the jaws of death. 

The mutual interchange of formal compliments and 
good-will was followed by the customary coffee and 
sweet-meats, and cigarettes that were the Sheik’s one 
lapse from strict orthodoxy and which he proffered with 
a grave smile and a jest at his own expense. The con¬ 
versation ranged over many topics, and used though he 
was to the circumambient methods of the oriental when 
any particular point is in view, Carew began to wonder 
when the special subject which he understood was the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


105 


main reason of his visit would be approached. But when 
the Sheik at length abandoned generalities and came with 
unexpected directness to the heart of the matter he had 
dallied with so long, Carew listened to information that 
coming from such a quarter, filled him with amazement. 
The man was no friend to France, and out of favour 
with the Government, but he was calmly imparting 
intelligence that would be very useful to the Admin¬ 
istration and for the moment Carew was nonplussed. 
Was the surprising confidence for his ears alone or was 
he being used as an intermediary to bring about a rap¬ 
prochement between a refractory chief and the rulers of 
“he country? He put the question with his usual blunt¬ 
ness. 

“Is it thy wish that the Government should learn of 
this?” 

The Sheik’s gem-laden fingers touched lightly first his 
forehead then his breast. 

“It is my wish that through thee the Government 
should learn that which they are too blind to see. Thus 
do I, in part, pay my debt,” he answered, with a sudden 
gleam in his fierce old eyes. Carew nodded and studied 
the glowing end of his cigarette thoughtfully for a few 
moments. 

“And thou, O Sheik,” he said at last, “do I speak for 
thee to the Government? The day is fortunate. Tonight 
I dine with His Excellency and General Sanois—” 

“May Allah burn them!” interposed the Sheik fer¬ 
vently, and spat frankly and conclusively on to the price¬ 
less carpet. Carew laughed. 

“And thy news?” he asked, rising to his feet after a 


106 


THE DESERT HEALER 


glance at the watch on his wrist and pulling his waist¬ 
coat down with a jerk. 

“Use it—or withhold it, but speak no word of me. Am 
I their dog?” replied the Sheik, with a flash of anger, as 
he prepared to take leave of his guest. 

But there was a constraint in his manner, a hint of 
something left unsaid, that made him appear preoccupied 
as he accompanied Carew to the head of the little wind¬ 
ing staircase where the negro was still waiting. And 
it was not until the elaborate farewells had been spoken 
and Carew had started to descend that the old Arab gave 
utterance to what was in his mind. Leaning forward 
he spoke in a swift undertone. “There was a dweller in 
the wilderness who had a garden filled with rare flowers 
—culled from the gardens of better men than he—a gar¬ 
den overflowing with sweetness and delight. Yet was 
he not satisfied, for his questioning eyes had glimpsed the 
beauty of a stranger blossom brought from a far-off 
land, and he burned with desire to gather it for his own. 
Chance gave him the prize he longed for—and chance 
wrested it from him again. And now the fire of desire 
is quenched in the greater fire of hatred and revenge. 
Take heed for that same gardener, my friend,” he added 
meaningly, and turned away with a parting salaam. 

Carew went on down the stairs, with a faint smile at 
the oriental ambiguity with which the veiled warning 
had been conveyed to him. Though no name had been 
mentioned it was perfectly obvious who threatened him. 
He had thwarted the desire of no other Arab. But as 
he followed the negro again through the blackness of 
the winding passage he turned from the thought of that 


THE DESERT HEALER 


107 


particular Arab with a shrug of annoyance. Abdul el 
Dhib was too intimately connected with what he wished 
to forget to allow him to dwell on the possible results of 
the horse-thief’s threats. Threatened men live long, 
and Abdul was in some ways wise in his generation. 
There seemed no need to take the warning too seriously 
and, besides, he was too deeply imbued with the fatalism 
he had learned in the desert to dread death that was 
always more or less imminent in the hazardous life he 
led. He had always held his life cheaply, there was no 
reason now to go out of his way to take precautions that 
would probably be unnecessary. He lived or he died as 
Allah willed—a comfortable creed he found amply suffi¬ 
cient. 

Dismissing Abdul from his mind his thoughts reverted 
to the other as plausible but more clean-handed Arab 
he had just quitted. The intelligence the Sheik had 
imparted ought, without question, to be passed on to 
headquarters, and that as speedily as possible. Perhaps 
tonight he would find opportunity to approach the Gen¬ 
eral on the subject—and Sanois; certain demands for the 
source of his information were going to be the very devil 
to parry. 

The return journey through the dismal cellars seemed 
shorter than the first and Carew was not surprised when 
he was ushered into the outer world again to find him¬ 
self, as he had expected, in a totally different street from 
that in which he had waited to gain admittance to the 
sinister-looking house. But the locality was known to 
him and very soon he was back in the rue Annibal, swing¬ 
ing quickly down the unusually empty street. Preoccu- 


108 


THE DESERT HEALER 


pied he rounded a sharp corner without noticing the 
noisy clamour that ordinarily would have warned him 
of some special excitement in progress and came sud¬ 
denly upon a yelling crowd of ragged youths and boys 
who fought and screamed and tore at each other as they 
surged round some central object that was hidden from 
him. The noise was deafening, the narrow roadway 
completely blocked, and Carew glanced at his watch with 
a gathering frown. He was late enough already, he had 
no mind to be further delayed by a band of young sav¬ 
ages employed probably in their usual amusement of tor¬ 
turing some unfortunate dumb animal that had fallen 
into their clutches. 

He was familiar with the callous cruelty of the Arabs, 
but familiarity had not lessened the abhorrence with 
which he viewed this particular pastime of the native 
youth. And the scowl on his face deepened as he sought 
to find some way of passing the squalid rabble who had 
taken possession of the footway. Argument was impos¬ 
sible, his voice would be drowned in the shrill cries 
that filled the air. Action, prompt and decisive, was the 
only expedient. Selecting a spot where the throng seemed 
less dense he gripped two of the taller lads, who were 
engaged in a private sparring match on the fringe of the 
crowd, and dashing their heads together drove them 
before him a living wedge into the heart of the press. 

The unexpectedness of his attack made his task an easy 
one, and in the sudden silence that ensued he cursed them 
fluently and with picturesque attention to detail that left 
nothing to the imagination. 

There were some who knew him by sight—he heard 


THE DESERT HEALER 


109 


his Arab title uttered warningly—for the rest he was a 
representative of law and order whose coming put a 
period to their amusement. Before he had finished speak¬ 
ing they had begun to slink away and in a few moments 
he was alone in the again deserted street, looking down 
with a variety of feelings on the slim girlish figure 
crouched on the filthy cobblestones at his feet. Hatless, 
her white dress stained and crumpled, she seemed oblivi¬ 
ous of everything but the pitiful little cur whose mangled 
bloodstained head lay on her knee. She was crooning to 
it softly, brushing the matted hair from its fast glazing 
eyes and stroking the broken palpitating limbs with tender 
caressing fingers. And when the tortured creature’s 
agony was over and she had laid the little dead body 
gently aside she still sat on motionless, shivering from 
time to time as she tried to wipe the crimson stickiness 
from her fingers with a scrap of lawn that was already a 
soaked red rag. 

With a gesture of impatience Carew dropped his own 
larger and more adequate handkerchief into her lap. 

“It is unwise to meddle with these Arab gamins, Lady 
Geradine.” He spoke curtly, his tone patiently disap¬ 
proving, and at the sound of his voice she started 
violently. For a moment she scarcely seemed to breathe, 
then she stumbled to her feet looking up at him quickly 
and he saw the sudden bewilderment that leaped into her 
eyes as they travelled slowly over the length of his tall 
figure and then sought his face again to linger on the 
tell-tale scar across his cheek that gave her the clue to his 
identity. 

“You are English,” she stammered, the colour rushing 


110 


THE DESERT HEALER 


into her white cheeks. “I thought—that night—you were 
an Arab.” Then she flung her hands out to him with a 
little choking cry. “Oh, why didn’t you come sooner,” 
she wailed, “it was horrible! That poor wee beastie— 
those devils I You don’t know what they did—it nearly 
drove me mad—I can’t bear to see an animal suffer—” 
she broke off with a shudder and for a moment he thought 
she was going to faint and caught at her arm instinctively. 
But she pulled herself together, moving away from him 
slightly with a fleeting smile of acknowledgment. 

“I’m all right, thanks, only it makes one—just a little 
bit—sick,” she said jerkily, her hands busy with her 
loosened hair, and looking about for her hat which had 
been torn from her in the scuffle. She spied it at last 
wedged in the grating of a window and rescued it with a 
rueful laugh that ended shakily. Brushing the dust 
marks from her tumbled dress she turned again to Carew. 
He was waiting with the detached air of aloofness she 
remembered so well and which sent a little chill through 
her, making her feel that again he had been constrained 
to render a service that was totally against his inclination. 

“I seem to be fated to give you trouble,” she murmured 
shyly. But he did not choose to notice her tentative refer¬ 
ence to their first meeting. 

“Are you alone?” he asked bluntly. “It is too late in 
the evening for you to be in the Casbar without an 
escort.” 

She flushed deeply at the undisguised reproof in his 
tone, and found herself eagerly defending her imprudence 
as if she admitted his right to censure and could not bear 
that he should put a wrong construction on her actions. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


111 


“I know—but I didn’t realize how late it was. I was 
shopping, and after I had sent my man home with the 
parcels I remembered a piece of embroidery I wanted. I 
thought I could find it easily but I had to hunt for it a 
long time. Then I forgot all about the time in watching 
the people, and I wandered on until, finally, I lost myself. 
I was trying to make my way back when—when I saw the 
dog. I suppose it was stupid of me to attempt to do 
anything—but I just had to,” she concluded, with sudden 
vehemence. A curious look she was unable to read 
flashed across his face as he glanced from her to the 
wretched little body stiffening on the cobbles, but he made 
no comment as he moved forward with an almost imper¬ 
ceptible shrug. “I can find you a fiacre in the rue 
Randon,” he said coldly, as if his sole desire was to be 
rid of her society at the earliest moment possible. 

And chilled again by his brusque manner she walked 
beside him silently. She was more shaken by the incident 
than she had realised, and for the first time she began to 
wonder what would have happened if he had not come. 
But he had come, and once again she was his debtor for 
a service he rendered unwillingly. By no stretch of 
imagination could she deceive herself into believing that 
he was even interested, much less glad, at seeing her 
again. Why did he so grudge the help he voluntarily 
offered? And why had he let her think that he was an 
Arab? She looked at him covertly, but after the first shy 
glance she had no hesitation in continuing her scrutiny 
for he seemed as unaware of her regard as he was negli¬ 
gent of her company. She realised it with a curiously 
bitter little feeling of pain. Yet why should he be other 


112 


THE DESERT HEALER 


than he was? She was only a stranger, forced upon his 
notice by what he must consider as deliberate acts of folly 
on her part. And yet it was not so. She had been 
thoughtless, but on neither occasion had she willfully 
gone out of her way to court either excitement or danger. 
The morning when she had ridden alone it was an 
imperative desire for solitude that had made her leave 
Tanner behind. And today the sight of the tortured dog 
had driven all thoughts of herself out of her head. She 
had not stopped to think of the possible consequences 
that might ensue when, carried away by horror and pity, 
she'had endeavoured to restrain the most fiendish cruelty 
she had ever witnessed. 

She stifled a sigh as she looked at him again, sure of 
his preoccupation. 

The change of dress seemed to alter him completely. 
In the well-fitting blue serge suit that clung closely to his 
muscular figure he appeared taller, slenderer than she had 
supposed; but he looked older, too, and the gravity of 
face and demeanour that had seemed natural in an Arab 
struck her even more forcibly now that she knew his true 
nationality. The soft felt hat, pulled far forward over 
his eyes, shaded features that to her looked sterner and 
more rigidly set than when she had first seen them. It 
was a strong face, she decided, too strong, too hard 
perhaps for absolute beauty but, clean cut, and bronzed 
as a native’s, lean and healthy looking, it was a face that 
arrested and compelled attention. Strength seemed the 
key note of his composition. His spare frame appeared 
to be made up of only bone and muscle, his long slow 
stride was springy and elastic, and he carried himself 


THE DESERT HEALER 


113 


magnificently. Again she found herself wondering who 
he was, wishing she might ask him, but fearing the same 
rebuff she had met with before. And yet, if she only 
knew his name! It would be something to remember, 
something to cling to. And as the thought came she 
turned her head away hastily with a feeling of acute and 
miserable shame, realising how completely he had filled 
her mind during what had seemed to her the longest and 
most unhappy weeks she had ever experienced. She had 
wrestled with herself, striving to forget him, hoping that 
time would obliterate the image that seemed to possess 
her every conscious moment. But this second meeting 
had shattered the resolutions she had formed so bravely. 
She would always remember, always care. The memory 
of him would go with her through life—the memory of a 
man who was indifferent to her, whom honour demanded 
that she should root out of her heart. Did love always 
come like that, so suddenly, so irresistible, so unsought? 
Could she have conquered it if she had really tried to do 
so from the first moment of realization? She had tried.” 
She had fought against it, shuddering from what seemed 
to her a sin, praying desperately for strength to put it 
from her. But her prayers had been unavailing and 
daily, hourly, the love she could not deny had grown 
stronger and more insistent. Only in the last three weeks 
had she come to know how starved her heart had been. 
Love had entered very little into her life. Her father 
had loved her but she was a child when he died, and 
since his death she had had no outlet for the affection 
lying dormant in her. She had lived in the open, a boy’s 
life rather than a girl’s, finding abundant happiness and 


114 


THE DESERT HEALER 


contentment in sport and outdoor pursuits. She had had 
no girlish dreams of the possible lover who might some 
day come to win her heart, no opportunity of filling her 
imagination with tales of sentiment and romance. During 
the long winter evenings in the lonely house in Ireland 
she had read much but the books that formed her father’s 
library were books of travel and the histories of many 
countries. She had been singularly innocent, singularly 
young. Then she had married, and marriage had brought 
her not the joy and wonder of a man’s devotion but the 
loathing of a man’s possession. All that was brutal, all 
that was sordid and degrading in such a union she had 
learned with horror and amazement. Forced to hide the 
revulsion that filled her, forced into a mode of life that 
shocked her every sense of decency, she had steeled 
herself to endure until she had come to look upon herself 
as a thing of stone, a heartless, lifeless automaton. The 
hope of a child, that might have been another woman’s 
salvation, had never touched her. She shrank with ab¬ 
horrence from the thought of possible motherhood. It 
would have been the last drop in her cup of bitterness. 
In spite of the disappointment and anger of her husband, 
who never ceased to reproach her for failing to give him 
the heir he desired, she prayed God passionately to spare 
her the shame of bringing into the world the offspring of 
such a man. That through her his vices might be per¬ 
petuated was a fear that never left her, a fear that year 
by year as she learned more thoroughly her husband’s 
character and innate viciousness had grown into an obses¬ 
sion. And now the dread that filled her continually had 
become a thousand times more poignant, a thousand times 


THE DESERT HEALER 


115 


more horrible for the strange overwhelming emotion that 
had leaped into being that awful night three weeks ago. 
Love she had never thought to know had come to her— 
and come too late. Free, she could have loved him though 
he had never turned to her; bound, to even think of him 
was disloyalty to the man who had the right to claim her 
affection. The right to claim—but when had he ever 
claimed it! When had he ever shown by look or word 
that he even desired it? Her feelings were nothing to 
him, obedience was all he demanded—slavish submission 
to his domination, absolute surrender to his will, his 
caprices, and his inordinate passion. The pride he dis¬ 
played in her beauty was the same he exhibited for any 
animal his wealth enabled him to acquire. The pride 
merely of arrogant ownership. And as he treated his 
animals so did he treat her. And as they flinched from 
him so did her whole soul recoil from his proximity. The 
last three weeks had been purgatory. He had been more 
intolerant, more hard to please, more insistent in his 
selfish demands than he had ever been. He had also 
been drinking more heavily than usual with disastrous 
results to his temper which had been felt by all the house¬ 
hold. Malec, the Arab valet, the scarcely healed cut 
across his face a burning, throbbing reminder of his 
master’s heavy hand, went sullenly about his duties with 
hatred in his half-veiled eyes, and Tanner was in open 
rebellion. 

This evening for the first time since his return he had 
allowed her out of his sight, and had given reluctant per¬ 
mission for the shopping expedition to the Casbar. For 
two hours she had been free, free of the suspicious eyes 


116 


THE DESERT HEALER 


that watched her every movement, free of the hated 
caresses that in his maudlin humour he showered on her. 
She shivered at the thought of going back to him. With 
an unconscious movement she drew nearer to the man 
who walked beside her, marvelling anew at the strange 
feeling of security his presence brought her, marvelling 
that she should feel so little astonishment at seeing him 
again. 

It seemed perfectly natural that he should once more 
come to her aid. If it had been Clyde instead — a 
spasm of pain crossed her face. Clyde would only have 
been amused! She clenched her hands as she strove to 
stem the tide of bitterness that rushed over her. Why 
must she torture herself with making comparisons. The 
contrast between them was sufficiently hideous without 
allowing herself to dwell on it. And she had no right to 
dwell on it, no right to make comparisons. She 
was Clyde’s wife—Clyde’s wife. The clenched hands 
tightened until the nails bit deeper into the soft palms. 
Silence became impossible. She must speak, if only to 
turn the current of her thoughts. 

“I haven’t thanked you for sending back The Caid,” 
she said nervously, forcing her voice to steadiness. They 
were passing down a narrow street where grave-faced 
Arabs, lost apparently in contemplation, sat smoking in 
the open doorways of their shops regarding the passers- 
by with unconcerned aloofness, ostensibly disdainful of 
possible sales, yet quick to notice all who came and went, 
for, watching them, Marny saw with growing astonish¬ 
ment the frequent and profound salaams which greeted 
her companion. As she spoke he had stopped to ac- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


117 


knowledge the salute of a venerable greybeard who 
lounged indolently amongst the fine carpets and hetero¬ 
geneous collection of brasswork and antique firearms that 
formed his stock in trade. For a moment Carew paused 
to handle the keen-edged Moorish dagger proffered to 
him with an accompanying murmur that was barely 
audible, then shook his head smilingly as he returned the 
weapon with a shrug of careless indifference and an 
equally low-voiced rejoinder. 

With complete unconcern the Arab tossed the knife 
aside and resumed his pipe, and Carew turned again to 
Marny with a slight gesture of apology. 

“I can recommend old Ibraheim, if you are interested 
in embroideries, Lady Geradine. Most of his things are 
genuine, and he has seen you with me—he won’t rob you 
too unmercifully,” he said, with the first smile he had yet 
given her “I was fortunate in finding your horse,” he 
continued, raising his hand to fend from her the swaying 
head of a heavily laden camel that lurched past with a 
snarling grunt of ill-humour, “but, if you will permit me 
to say so, I strongly advise you not to ride him again 
unattended. His worth and pedigree are well known, 
and there are a number of Arabs in and about Algiers 
who are very averse to valuable stallions being sold out 
of the country. It is only natural when you come to think 
of it! I should hold the same view myself—were I an 
Arab.” 

“You are very like one.” The words escaped her in¬ 
voluntarily and she glanced at him quickly, fearful that 
he would think her impertinent. But he did not appear 
to resent the comparison and taking courage she yielded 


118 


THE DESERT HEALER 


to the longing that came over her to learn more of the 
man who had come so strangely into her life. 

“You have lived much amongst them?” she suggested 
diffidently. His curt assent was not conducive to further 
questioning but her wistful interest overcame her shyness. 

“In the desert—the real desert?” she asked eagerly. 

“Yes, in the real desert,” he answered shortly, a slight 
frown gathering on his face. And as if regretting the 
slight lapse from his former rigidity of manner he seemed 
to draw once more into himself, cold and unapproachable 
as he had been at first. And, flushing sensitively, Marny 
relapsed into silence that lasted until they reached the 
rue Randon. A passing victoria plying for hire rattled 
up in response to Carew’s signal, and he had placed her 
in it almost before she realized that they were clear of 
the Casbar. 

For a moment she leant forward without speaking, 
looking at him as he stood bareheaded on the pavement 
beside her. Then she thrust her hand out to him with a 
brusque boyish gesture. 

“Thank you—for all you’ve done,” she said shakily, 
her lips trembling despite her efforts to keep them steady. 

For the fraction of a second he hesitated, staring 
gloomily at the little outstretched hand, then his tall 
figure stiffened suddenly and, drawing back with a deep 
un-English bow, he signed to the Arab coachman to 
drive on. 


CHAPTER V 


Without bestowing a second glance on either the 
carriage or its occupant Carew jammed his hat down 
savagely over his eyes and leaped into another cab that 
had drawn up expectantly beside him. 

He leant back against the dusty cushions, his arms 
folded tightly across his chest, scowling wrathfully at the 
busy streets. He had not seen the look of hurt disap¬ 
pointment that flashed into the girl’s eyes when he 
ignored her outstretched hand, nor heard the sharp sob 
that burst from her trembling lips. He had been conscious 
only of the raging tumult of his own feelings, of the in¬ 
tolerant anger that this second wholly undesired meeting 
had provoked. It had been an effort to be even civil—if 
indeed he had been civil at all, which he very much 
doubted. How like a woman to forget one peril so readily 
and court further danger without a moment’s considera¬ 
tion. Had the lesson of three weeks ago made so little 
impression on her? The little fool—did she imagine that 
Algiers was teeming with knights-errant seeking beauty 
in distress! His fine lips curved contemptuously as he 
lit a cigarette and looked at his watch with a deeper scowl. 
Though indifferent to his own meals he disliked causing 
annoyance to others and the cheery little Governor was 
a gourmet to whom a retarded dinner was a catastrophe. 
By now he should have been starting for the Palace 
instead of toiling up the road to Mustapha behind two 
extremely tired half-starved Arab hacks. It was useless 
119 


120 


THE DESERT HEALER 


to urge the driver, the hill was steep and the miserable 
little beasts were doing their best. 

Stretching his long legs out more comfortably and 
pulling his hat further over his eyes he settled himself to 
wait, his mind wandering back to the desert he had so 
recently left but towards which his thoughts were already 
turning eagerly. Time to complete his arrangements for 
another protracted trip, to restock his depleted medical 
equipment, and he could leave this confounded town again 
for the life he loved best. A life of hardship and danger, 
but to him a life eminently worth living. And in the end 
—far out amongst the sandy wastes, he hoped, where the 
fierce sun would beat down scorchingly on the whispering 
particles that would hold him in their shifting embrace, 
where the jackals would wail their nightly chorus under 
the marvel of the eastern stars—the requiem of the desert. 

The desert! He drew a deep breath of heart-felt 
anticipation. It was calling him more compellingly than 
it had ever done, bringing memories of long hot rides 
beneath the burning sun, of the silver radiance of the 
peaceful moonlit nights and the never failing glory of the 
dawn. He smiled a little at his own enthusiasm. It was 
not all peace and beauty and marvellous silence. There 
was battle and murder and sudden death, cruelty that was 
inconceivable and suffering that made him set his teeth as 
he thought of the needless agony he had witnessed more 
times than he cared to remember. But despite its savagery 
he loved it. It was his life. It was there he had found 
his chosen work, it was there he hoped to die. Even the 
the thought of it was soothing to him in his present mood, 
and dreaming of it, he forgot the annoyance of the after- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


121 


noon, forgot everything but the irresistible charm it had 
for him. 

The villa was reached at length, the sweating horses 
expending their remaining reserve of strength in a final 
spurt of activity rushing the last fifty yards of level 
ground under a storm of abuse from the Arab driver who 
drew up at the nail-studded door, set in the enclosing 
wall, with a self-satisfied grin that widened broadly as he 
caught the liberal fee tossed to him. At the sound of the 
approaching wheels the door had opened silently and 
Carew passed through and went swiftly along the flower 
bordered pathway to the house. The single storied build¬ 
ing was the most beautiful in Muslapha Superieur. Built 
forty years before for Carew’s delicate mother it was a 
miniature palace and stood in a garden that rivalled even 
that of the Villa des Ombres. But, preoccupied, Carew 
had tonight no eye for the beauty of either house or 
garden and he did not linger as was his wont before 
entering the spacious mauresque hall where Hosein was 
waiting for him in a state of visible- agitation that was 
foreign to his usual impassive demeanour. 

“Praise be to Allah, my lord has returned,” he 
murmured, his gloomy eyes lightening with evident relief. 
Carew stared at him for a moment in puzzled astonish¬ 
ment, then he smiled a trifle grimly. Hosein too! This 
was becoming monotonous. He was fully conversant with 
the rapidity with which reports spread in a land of 
rumour and intrigue, but Abdul, who had unorthodox 
proclivities, must have been drunk indeed to boast so 
openly of his intentions. 

“To Allah the praise,” he returned conventionally. 


122 


THE DESERT HEALER 


Then he laughed and shrugged indifferently. “ ‘The 
jackal howls where he dare not slay/ ” he quoted, adding 
over his shoulder as he moved away, “Telephone to the 
Palace that I have been detained, that I beg His Excel¬ 
lency will not wait for me. I will join him as quickly as 
possible.” 

He crossed the open courtyard round which the house 
was built and entered his bedroom, passing through to the 
dressing room beyond. There he found the blind boy 
sitting on the floor, his hands folded in his lap, his face 
turned towards the door with a look of strained attention. 
As it opened he sprang to his feet and bounded forward 
impetuously. With a word of warning Carew caught 
him and swung him high in his arms. “What mischief 
to confess, O son of wickedness?” he teased, as he felt 
the slender limbs trembling against him. But the time- 
honoured jest did not provoke the peal of laughter he 
expected. Instead the little face was grave and strangely 
set and Carew put him down with a quick caress. 

“Who has troubled thee, Saba?” he asked quietly, 
moving across the room to empty his pockets before 
changing. The boy followed him with outstretched 
fumbling hands. “No man has troubled me,” he answered 
slowly, “but, lord, my heart is sick within me. I dreamt 
a dream—an evil dream. And, waking, the dream is with 
me still. There is danger, lord, that threatens thee. In 
my dreams I saw clearly, but now I cannot see—I cannot 
see—” he broke off with a sharp little wail of anguish. A 
queer look crossed Carew’s face as his hands closed firmly 
over the tiny fluttering fingers. It was not the first time 
that Saba had shown himself to be possessed of an almost 


THE DESERT HEALER 


123 


uncanny sensitiveness where the safety of the man he 
worshipped was concerned. Ordinarily a happy, healthy- 
minded child there was in him an odd streak of mysticism 
that cropped up at rare intervals with curious results. On 
two previous occasions he had had a presage of danger 
menacing his protector that subsequent events had fully 
justified. Too familiar with the occultism of the east to 
be sceptical Carew was not disposed to minimise the im¬ 
portance of a warning that was identical with the plainer, 
more substantial hints he had received that afternoon, but 
he was in no mind to treat it with undue seriousness or 
show too great a credulity to the nervous boy whose 
upturned sightless eyes were wet with tears. He soothed 
him with the tenderness that marked his every dealing 
with him. “Thou hast dreamt before,” he said gently, 
“and the danger has passed. So will this danger pass—” 
“If Allah wills.” The childish treble broke on a quiver¬ 
ing sob and Carew accepted the qualification of his assur¬ 
ance with a little smile. “All things are with Allah,” he 
answered, “and it is written ‘seek not to discover that 
which is hidden, for behold, when the day cometh all 
things shall be revealed.’ And again, ‘no accident 
happeneth in the earth, nor in your persons, but the same 
was entered in the book of our decrees.’ ” 

A deep sigh escaped the boy and he pressed his lips on 
the strong brown hands clasped on his. 

“So it is written—yet if thou die, I die,” he exclaimed 
passionately. 

With wonderful gentleness Carew disengaged himself. 
“Time to think of that when I die,” he said lightly. 
“Meanwhile I live—and the French lord’s dinner grows 


124 


THE DESERT HEALER 


cold while I chatter with a dreamer of dreams,” he 
added, turning away to the dressing table. 

He changed quickly, and flinging a black cloak over his 
evening clothes paused irresolutely with his hand over a 
revolver that lay on the table. He was not in the habit 
of carrying firearms in the town of Algiers but tonight 
there seemed justification for so doing. He might have 
doubts as to the truth of the warnings he had received 
but he would be a fool to utterly ignore them. 

Slipping the weapon into his hip pocket he left the 
room with a cheery word to Saba, who was sitting mourn¬ 
fully amidst the discarded clothing that littered the floor, 
and went out to his waiting carriage. 

And as the spirited black horses drew him swiftly 
through the night his thoughts were busy with the pathetic 
little figure left disconsolate in the dressing room. If 
anything happened to him what would be the fate of the 
blind boy whose whole life was bound up in his? It was 
a problem that had often troubled him. He had made 
full provision for his protege’s future and Hosein, while 
he lived, would serve him faithfully. But Saba in his 
blindness and with his highly-strung mystical tempera¬ 
ment needed more than bodily comfort and faithful 
service. He needed what apparently only Carew could 
give him. Without Carew he would pine and droop like 
a delicate plant torn from the parent root from which it 
draws its strength. For Saba’s sake, then it behooved him 
to take precautions he would otherwise have neglected. 

The town was quieter than it had been earlier in the 
evening and Carew’s coachman, who was a noted whip, 
took full advantage of the empty streets, driving with 


THE DESERT HEALER 


125 


customary Arab recklessness but handling the excited 
horses magnificently until, with a fine flourish, he drew 
them foam-flecked to a standstill before the Palace. 

The Governor, as Carew hoped, had taken him at his 
wo d. Dinner was in full swing when he entered with 
apologies for his lateness and slipped into the place 
reserved for him. 

It was, in compliment to his known peculiarity, a 
strictly bachelor entertainment, enlivened by the presence 
of Patrice Lemaire and another equally light-hearted 
attache. 

The Governor, hospitable to his finger tips and still 
pleasantly excited with the success of the day’s work, 
was overflowing with good humour. Even General 
Sanois had relaxed somewhat of his usual gravity and 
condescended to occasional bursts of heavy pleasantry. 
But he was obviously distrait and his spasmodic attempts 
at conversation were punctuated by lengthy silences 
during which his eyes wandered frequently to Carew who 
was sitting opposite to him. And towards the close of 
dinner, when the Arab servants had left the room, he 
leaned forward with a sudden remark that was fraught 
with more meaning than the actual words implied. 

“Your friends in the Casbar were exigent, it seems.” 

But Carew, who knew him, was not to be drawn. 
General Sanois was usually possessed of more knowledge 
than he was willing to admit, and his seemingly inocu- 
ous questions were often actuated by a deliberate 
policy and were rarely as guileless as they appeared. And 
tonight his thinly veiled curiosity met with scant success. 
Carew had no intention of being trapped into saying more 


126 


THE DESERT HEALER 


than he wished to say, or of imparting what he preferred 
to withhold. He met the GeneraPs intent gaze with a 
tolerant smile. 

“Don’t jibe at my friends, mon general he replied. 
“As I said this afternoon, they are useful. They serve 
you through me and they know it—most of them. But I 
picked up one piece of information this evening that will 
interest you—” 

“Tomorrow,” interrupted the Governor hastily, “tomor¬ 
row, my dear Carew. Business tonight is taboo. If our 
good Sanois once starts talking of his eternal affairs he 
will talk all through the opera, and I shall behave badly. 
Yes, badly, I warn you. I—” The remainder of his 
protest was lost in the shout of laughter that burst from 
his irrepressible nephew. 

“Latest news from Algeria,” chanted Lemaire in the 
shrill nasal tones of the street newsvendor. “Regrettable 
scene witnessed last night at the opera. Fracas in the 
Governor GeneraPs box. His Excellency and the Com- 
mander-in-Chief engaged in mortal combat in the presence 
of an excited audience. The Governor not expected to 
recover. General Sanois has fled to the desert and pro¬ 
claimed himself ‘Emperor of the Sahara’—My dear 
General, I offer my service as Aide-de-Camp. I’m bored 
to extinction with writing Uncle Henri’s despatches,” he 
added with an ironical bow, dodging the dinner napkin 
the Governor flung at his head. And in the general laugh 
that followed they rose from the table. 

They were late in reaching the opera house and the 
first act was in progress when the Governor, a music 
lover at heart, tiptoed silently into his box and settled 


THE DESERT HEALER 


127 


himself attentively to listen to a work he had already 
heard a score of times. 

Carew, sitting on his left, drew his chair into the 
shadow of the heavy side curtain and leant back to 
pursue his own thoughts which the mediocre company on 
the stage failed to distracf. The house was full, one box 
only—that directly facing the Governor’s—being empty. 
Carew’s gaze turned to the crowded seats with indifferent 
interest. It was more than two years since he had last 
visited the garish little theatre; it would probably be 
another two years before he was in it again, he reflected, 
as his mind ranged back to the all absorbing topic of the 
new expedition he was scheming. And now it seemed 
possible that his schemes might meet with an unexpected 
check. The information he had promised General Sanois 
at dinner, which he had gleaned that afternoon during his 
interview with the old chief in the Casbar, had in a 
measure upset his original calculations. It might mean a 
total change of plan. The needs of the Government had 
not been included in his forthcoming trip. He had 
purposed a tour that should be wholly devoted to his own 
work, and he viewed with some dismay the possibility of 
further political activity. He was a free lance, of course. 
He could take or reject any work offered him, but the 
mere fact of his freedom seemed to make the sense of his 
moral obligation more binding. He would have to go if 
it became really necessary—devoutly he hoped that the 
necessity would not arise. He was tired of intrigue and 
the endless palavers of political negotiations. He was 
anxious to pursue his own vocation unhindered, and to 
travel where inclination took him rather than follow a 


128 


THE DESERT HEALER 


definite route in furtherance of Government schemes. 
There was a district, far away in the southwest, he had 
long wanted to visit. A district inhabited by a tribe he 
had heard of but with whom he had never yet come in 
contact. His plans of the last three weeks had centered 
more and more round this unknown locality that seemed 
to promise everything he demanded in the way of work 
and adventure. A strange and hostile people who guarded 
the secret of their desert fastness with jealous activity, 
fiercely resenting not only the advent of foreigners but 
also the encroachment of contiguous tribes. The tales he 
had heard of the impregnable walled-in city—a medieval 
survival if all the extraordinary stories anent it were 
true—had fired him with a desire to penetrate its hidden 
mysteries, to gain a footing amongst its prejudiced popu¬ 
lation. His calling had proved a passport to other 
inhospitable tribes, he counted on it confidently to win his 
admission to the secret City of Stones—the name by 
which it was known to the nomads who avoided its 
vicinity. The thought of it moved him deeply. Surely 
there was work for him within that rocky fortress could 
he but once pass its closely guarded gateway. The call 
seemed imperative, the call of suffering ignorant humanity 
whose misery he longed to alleviate. The need must be 
great, and alone he could do so little. Still even the 
little was worth his utmost endeavour, was worth the 
hazardous experiment. He could but try, and trying, 
succeed or fail. 

And as he meditated on the chances of the success he 
earnestly hoped for, the little theatre with its crowded 
seats seemed to fade before his eyes. He saw instead an 


THE DESERT HEALER 


129 


endless stretch of undulating waste, sun scorched and 
shimmering in the burning heat, and a caravan that 
wound its tortuous length across the wavy ripples of the 
wind-whipped sand labouring towards the mirage-like 
battlements of the secret city towering grimly against the 
radiance of the western sky. The imagery was strangely 
clear, singularly real. The gloomy pile stood out against 
his mental vision with almost photographic distinctness, 
and as he gazed at it wonderingly he seemed to feel 
between his knees the easy movements of the big bay 
stallion, to hear the voices of the men who rode behind 
him, the grunting protests of the lurching camels, the 
creak of sweat-drenched saddles and the whispering 
murmur of the shifting sand. 

The desert smell was pungent in his nostrils, his 
eyeballs ached with the blinding glare .... 

The burst of applause that greeted the fall of the 
curtain woke him abruptly from his abstraction and he 
turned with a momentary feeling of confusion to join in 
the general conversation that ensued. Would he ever in 
reality come so near to the mysterious city as he had 
seemed to be in imagination five minutes ago, he won¬ 
dered, as he declined the Governor’s invitation to smoke a 
cigarette in the corridor. He was still pondering it when, 
left alone, he rose to stretch his legs, cramped with the 
confined space. He made a noticeable figure standing in 
the front of the box, a figure that attracted universal 
attention. But with the complete unselfconsciousness 
that was so markedly a trait in his character he was 
unaware of the interest he aroused. Incurious himself 
with regard to others, and reserved even with his intimate 


130 


THE DESERT HEALER 


friends, he had no knowledge of the extravagant reports 
that for years had circulated about him, or of the excite¬ 
ment caused tonight by his appearance at the opera. That 
he was the subject of endless speculation, that he was the 
most discussed personage in Algiers, had never entered 
his head. And now, absorbed in his own thoughts, he 
was totally oblivious of the opera glasses and lorgnettes 
turned in his direction. 

But his wandering attention was caught at last by the 
arrival of late comers in the opposite box—a man who 
stopped in the doorway to argue noisily with the theatre 
attendant, and a slim white-robed girl who moved slowly 
to the front of the box without heeding the stormy alterca¬ 
tion behind her. She stood looking down on the crowded 
seats with a curious little air of detachment as if her 
thoughts were far away, toying nervously with the long 
curling feathers of a huge ostrich fan, her heavy sable 
cloak slipping from her shoulders. And with the same 
strange irritation, the same wholly unreasonable anger he 
had felt before Carew found himself staring at the pale 
sensitive face of the woman from whom he had parted 
only a few hours ago. Was he never to be free of her, 
never to be free of the haunting eyes he had striven for 
three weeks to banish from his thoughts? Was the 
remainder of his peace of mind to be wrecked by the 
continual remembrance of a woman he had no desire to 
remember? Surely her very womanhood was sufficient 
reason for forgetting her. He hated women. And in the 
intolerant antagonism that filled him he felt that above 
all others he hated this particular woman whose need had 
forced him to lay aside his prejudice and break the oath 


THE DESERT HEALER 


131 


he had sworn so many years ago. Young and beautiful, 
she was the incarnation of all he distrusted and despised. 
His face darkened and he made a movement to return to 
his seat. But something that was stronger than his 
hatred stayed him. Despite himself his gaze lingered on 
the slight girlish figure. And presently, as if drawn by 
some subtle telepathic influence, she seemed to become 
aware of the compelling stare fixed on her and slowly 
raised her head. For a second, across the width of the 
theatre, her eyes met his. But though the quick blood 
flamed into her face she gave no sign of recognition and 
turned, as from the unwarrantable scrutiny of a total 
stranger, to the man who was with her—the husband, 
Carew presumed, to whom she had alluded so briefly and 
with such evident constraint on that first night of meeting. 
The husband who doubtless knew nothing of the hours 
she had spent in his camp; who, probably, also knew 
nothing of this evening’s incident in the rue Annibal. His 
lips curled in a sneering smile and he turned with cynical 
amusement to look at the heavy figure lounging beside 
her. But the smile faded swiftly and his amusement gave 
place to a rush of feeling he did not at the moment under¬ 
stand as his eyes ranged over Geradine’s massive almost 
ape-like limbs and coarse sullen features. An odd look 
swept across his face and he drew his breath in sharply. 
For the first time in twelve years he felt pity for a woman. 
But he had no time to ponder it. All thought of the girl 
was swamped in the wave of strange and terrible emotion 
that was pouring over him, shaking him with a force he 
had never before experienced—a sudden overwhelming 
sense of hostility that had sprung into violent life within 


132 


THE DESERT HEALER 


him at the sight of the man in the opposite box, a fierce 
instinctive hatred such as he had never conceived. The 
realisation of it staggered him. There was no reason for 
it, he told himself angrily. It was preposterous, absurd. 
He had heard of hatred at first sight, and laughed at it. 
But he did not laugh now as he dragged his eyes from 
the face of the man he felt he hated from the bottom of 
his soul. He was very far from laughter. He was 
conscious instead of a feeling of fear—fear of himself, 
fear of the consequences of the appalling forces which 
seemed suddenly let loose within him. He had thought 
himself to be possessed of a perfect self-understanding. 
He wondered now did he know anything about himself 
at all. Nothing, it seemed. Nothing that had ever led 
him to imagine that some day, for no apparent cause or 
reason, he would contemplate the destruction of an utter 
stranger. For that was what it amounted to—the violent 
impulse that was actuating him was a passionate desire 
to kill. God in heaven, what had happened to him! Had 
his whole nature undergone some sudden and horrible 
metamorphosis—had the wild life he had led in the 
desert been influencing him unconsciously until at last he 
had himself succumbed to the savagery and lawlessness 
of the people amongst whom he lived? What devil was 
prompting him? His mission was to save life, not to 
destroy it. True that during the course of his wanderings 
there had been occasions when he had been forced to take 
life, but that was different. He had killed in self-defence 
or in the defence of others, as he would unhesitatingly 
kill again if need be, as he would without compunction 
have killed Abdul el Dhib if it had proved necessary in 


THE DESERT HEALER 


133 


the deserted village three weeks ago. But there was a 
wide gulf between justifiable homicide and murder. 
Murder! Perspiration gathered in icy drops on his 
forehead as his rigid lips framed the word. Was he 
going mad! He knew that he had never felt saner in his 
life. It was not madness that possessed him but an 
inexplicable feeling of deadly enmity that was almost 
overmastering in its intensity. 

The atmosphere of the theatre seemed suddenly stifling. 
The blood beat in his ears and with a sense of suffocation 
he brushed his hand before his eyes trying to clear the 
bewildering mist that had risen before them, blurring the 
crowded seats and the rapidly refilling orchestra. To sit 
out the remainder of the opera seemed an impossibility, 
but to surrender weakly to the impulse of the moment and 
leave the building was equally impossible. Gripping 
himself he turned to go back to his seat. But as he moved 
a hand was thrust through his arm and Patrice Lemaire’s 
eager voice sounded close beside him, murmuring in 
his ear. 

“Look, monsieur, in the opposite box. The compatriot 
of whom you spoke—Lord Geradine, and his wife. 
Beauty and the beast, hein? LaI la! quelle brute!” 

For a moment Carew stood motionless, then, with a 
tremendous effort he forced himself to glance naturally 
in the direction indicated by the interested attache. A 
glance of the briefest possible duration. Freeing himself 
from the nervous clasp of the impressionable young 
Frenchman who he knew would have had a great deal 
more to say had his auditor been other than himself, 
Carew drew back with a shrug of assumed indifference. 


134 


THE DESERT HEALER 


“As you say—a brute,” he said coldly, “for the rest, you 
are more competent to judge than I.” 

Lemaire accepted the retort with a little laugh of 
perfect good temper. 

“Each to his taste, monsieur. For you—horses, and 
for me—the ladies,” he replied gaily, and continued to 
stare with undisguised admiration at the fair occupant of 
the opposite box until the entrance of his uncle and 
General Sanois drove him to his own seat there to evolve 
schemes, with his more sympathetic fellow attache, for 
obtaining an introduction to the beautiful Englishwoman 
who reigned, for the moment, supreme in his susceptible 
and fickle heart. 

To Carew the time dragged out with maddening slow¬ 
ness. He envied Sanois who, screened by the curtains 
as he was himself, was frankly nodding. His whole 
body was still throbbing from the rush of extraordinary 
rage that had swept him, his head was aching with the 
effort to understand his own feelings, to find some sane 
and logical reason for the mental disturbance that had 
seized upon him with such cataclysmic suddenness. The 
whole thing was inexplicable, as inexplicable as the agi¬ 
tation of mind that had possessed him for the last three 
weeks. Was there any connection between them—was 
the one a corollary of the other? The startling thought 
almost forced an exclamation from his lips and he 
clenched his teeth as his eyes leaped involuntarily to 
the opposite box. What possible connection could there 
be—what had he to do with either of the strangely 
assorted couple who had each in their turn stirred him so 
powerfully? Towards what was fate pushing him! He 


THE DESERT HEALER 


135 


was conscious all at once of a feeling of helplessness. 
Since the day that Micky Meredith had come so unex¬ 
pectedly, reviving memories of the bitter past, everything 
seemed to be changed. He appeared to be no longer 
master of himself. He seemed to have been plunged into 
a vortex of circumstances over which he had no control, 
the end of which he could not see. The sense of impo¬ 
tence was galling, and he repudiated it angrily. He was 
damned if he was going to submit to any force of cir¬ 
cumstance that ran counter to his own inclination. And 
he was damned if he would take the easy way out of 
the difficulty. Once before in his life he had played the 
coward’s part and run away from a situation he was 
not morally strong enough to meet. He could never, if 
he hoped to retain the least shred of self-respect, do it 
again. And what, after all, was it he was trying to evade? 
The problematical results of an extraordinary hatred 
suddenly conceived for a total stranger, and the haunting 
recollection of a woman’s face with which he had 
become obsessed—he, who hated woman. Good Lord, what 
a fool! And reduced to the level of dispassionate reason¬ 
ing how futile it all seemed! It was time he got back 
to the desert if this was the effect that civilization had 
on him. With a shrug of self-contempt he turned for 
distraction to the stage he had hitherto ignored. And 
until the close of the act he forced his attention to a 
representation that appeared to him to be hardly more 
fantastic and unreal than his own extravagant thoughts. 

He welcomed the Governor’s decision to leave during 
the following interval and followed him out of the box 
with a sigh of relief. 


136 


THE DESERT HEALER 


In the foyer, where His Excellency lingered for a few 
moments chatting with his habitual courtesy to the director 
of the opera house, General Sanois, whose policy was 
to strike while the iron was hot, seized on the oppor¬ 
tunity to draw Carew aside and ask point blank for 
the information that had been promised during dinner. 
They were still talking when they went out to the wait¬ 
ing carriages. The Governor paused with his foot on 
the step of his victoria and beamed affectionately at the 
two tall men towering beside him. 

“You are going on to the Club—for a little game of 
bridge, perhaps?” he enquired genially. 

“The Club—yes. Bridge—no,” replied the General 
bluntly. “Carew and I have some business to discuss.” 

The Governor cast his eyes heavenwards. “Business 
at this time of night —grand Dieu!” he ejaculated. 
“Cards I could, understand, but business—” he shook his 
head despairingly. “You are incorrigible—and this good 
Carew who encourages you! Go and talk your business, 
my friends. For me, I have had an exhausting day, a 
very exhausting day. I shall go home to bed—at a 
reasonable hour for once in hiy life. It has been a charm¬ 
ing evening, a charming evening. My thanks to you 
both.” And smiling and bowing he fluttered into the 
victoria and drove away. 

As Carew’s carriage moved into place General Sanois, 
who had accepted his offer of a lift, shot a glance of 
faint surprise at the two mounted Arabs who were drawn 
up close behind it. 

“You ride en prince , tonight, my friend,” he said, 
frankly curious. And Carew who had himself only at 


THE DESERT HEALER 


137 


that moment noticed the men, shrugged with mingled 
amusement and annoyance. The idea of an escort would 
never have occurred to him, but Hosein was evidently 
determined his master should run no risk that fore¬ 
thought could prevent. 

“It would seem so,” he replied curtly, “but you must 
blame Hosein, not me, for this piece of theatrical non¬ 
sense.” 

The General settled his angular frame into a corner 
of the carriage and hitched his sword between his knees. 
“He probably has his reasons,” he said, with a shrewd 
smile that left Carew wondering how much he knew and 
how far his own steps were dogged by the secret police 
whose activities extended over a wider district than was 
generally known. But he let the comment pass unan¬ 
swered. The General was his very good friend, but with 
Sanois, friendship went by the board where the needs 
of the country were concerned and even his most trusted 
agents were subjected to an espionage that was all part 
of an elaborate and well-organized system. He stuck at 
nothing to obtain information he wanted and maintained 
that any means justified a desired end. That he was 
intrigued by Carew’s visit to the Casbar today was obvious 
but he was restricted from openly voicing his curi¬ 
osity by a compact that had been agreed between them 
years ago. Though he knew, and had good cause to 
know that Carew was whole-heartedly attached to the 
land of his adoption, he knew also that the Englishman 
was governed by scruples that debarred him from certain 
lines of action. Tonight Carew felt convinced that 
the General was on the track of something other than 


138 


THE DESERT HEALER 


the information he had been promised and, for his part, 
he was equally determined to disclose nothing but the 
matter in hand. Though his host of the afternoon might 
have been guilty of certain indiscretions that had put 
him out of favour with the Government his own visit to 
the Casbar had been a purely personal one—and it could 
rest at that. 

The Military Club was full when they arrived and it 
was some time before the two men could find a quiet 
corner in which to continue the conversation they had 
begun in the foyer of the opera house. 

Ordering coffee the General produced the map that 
seemed to live permanently in the inside pocket of his 
tunic and spread it out on the table between them. For 
an hour or more they talked uninterruptedly, and when 
at last General Sanois pushed back his chair with a little 
grunt of satisfaction, the club had emptied of all but a 
small number of inveterate card players whose voices 
echoed fitfully from an adjoining room. 

“It is understood, then, that you will act for us,” he 
said, refolding the map carefully into its creases, “if it 
becomes necessary.” 

“If it becomes necessary—yes,” said Carew, reaching 
for his cloak, “but I would prefer that you arranged this 
affair without my assistance. I have a scheme of my 
own on hand, and I am anxious to get back to my work.” 

“You can do your work and ours at the same time.” 

But Carew shook his head. “Not conscientiously,” he 
said as he rose to go, “and besides, you want me to go 
south. I want to go west.” 

The General glanced up with sudden interest from the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


139 


notes he was hastily scrawling in a bulky pocket-book. 
“The City of Stones?” he suggested, with the suspicion 
of a chuckle in his voice. 

“Yes, the City of Stones,” the other admitted slowly, 
“but how did you know?” 

The General laughed. “I didn’t know. I guessed. It 
is a sufficiently impossible undertaking that would nat¬ 
urally appeal to you. I have been wondering when you 
would attempt it.” 

Carew made a gesture of dissent. “I don’t think it 
impossible.” 

“No, you wouldn’t,” returned Sanois dryly, “but it is 
impossible for all that. Many people have attempted to 
penetrate into that very intriguing and mysterious city— 
it has been told me that the charming inhabitants use 
their bones to form a unique and picturesque embellish¬ 
ment to their battlements.” 

Carew swung his heavy cloak over his shoulders. 
“They are welcome to my bones,” he laughed, “the prob¬ 
able alternative being jackals.” 

“And your men—and the little Saba?” drawled Sanois, 
drawing patterns with his pencil on the marble-topped 
table. 

Carew eyed him with a faint smile. Sanois’ solicitude 
was touching but not convincing. 

“How much for my men and Saba—and how much 
for your own schemes, General?” he retorted. The Gen- 
eeral grinned frankly, as he hoisted himself on to his 
feet. “Touchel” he said with a little bow, “ but my 
schemes are less mad than yours, my friend. In the 
meantime we can count on you?” 


140 


THE DESERT HEALER 


“Only if it becomes absolutely necessary,” Carew 
replied again quickly. And unwilling to risk a total 
refusal by premature argument Sanois reserved his 
inducements for a future time. “We can talk of it again,” 
he said pleasantly, and shook hands with even more than 
his usual cordiality. To Carew the cool night air was 
a welcome relief after the heated atmosphere of the club. 
The fresh wind blowing against his face seemed to clear 
his brain and enabled him to think more calmly of the 
disturbing incidents of the evening. But calm reflection 
did not elucidate the extraordinary and violent hatred 
that had come to him. It was as much beyond his power 
of comprehension as it was beyond his power to ignore 
it. It seemed burnt into him. And the girl—he swore 
at himself angrily. He had thought enough about the 
girl. What had he to do with her or any other woman— 
he, who had cursed all women. Had he no strength of 
mind, no strength of purpose left? He sneered in bitter 
self mockery as the carriage stopped before the villa 
gateway. 

Utterly weary of himself and the turmoil of his 
thoughts he walked up to the house wondering how he 
was going to get through the remaining hours of the 
night. Sleep in his present state of mind seemed out 
of the question. It was not rest he wanted but hard 
physical exercise that in bodily fatigue he might forget 
the mental upheaval that had assailed him during these 
last three weeks of comparative inactivity. He paused 
at the foot of the verandah steps, looking up at the star-lit 
sky, and the drifting scent of orange blossom made 
him think with sudden regret of the camp he had left 


THE DESERT HEALER 


141 


amongst the hills near Blidah. What a night for a ride! 
If he started now he could be there by dawn. For a 
few minutes he played with the idea and then reluctantly 
put it from him. Despite his whole inclination some¬ 
thing seemed to be dragging him back, something that 
made it impossible for him to leave Algiers. 

With a heavy sigh he went slowly into the house. 


CHAPTER VI 


During the days that followed it became more and 
more borne in upon Carew that his cherished dream of 
visiting the mysterious City of Stones was doomed if not 
to failure certainly to indefinite postponement. General 
Sanois, who had thrown himself heart and soul into the 
new scheme for which Carew’s information had paved 
the way, was plying him hard, pressing for his acceptance 
of the mission offered him. Carew’s success in the past 
had made the General very sanguine of the outcome of 
the present proposed embassage and very tolerant of the 
Englishman’s lack of enthusiasm in a venture that pre¬ 
sented far fewer difficulties than others which had been 
negotiated and which, moreover, promised to further the 
prestige of the military governor of the Sahara. By 
turns he argued and expostulated, throwing forward 
every possible inducement to secure his voluntary agent’s 
co-operation and losing no opportunity of urging his 
insistent demands. To each and every objection Carew 
raised he responded with an unusual flow of rhetoric that 
was wasted on his silent and equally determined listener 
whose desire to return to his own work he brushed aside 
as secondary to the needs of the country. Mounted 
orderlies arrived at the villa at all hours of the day, and it 
seemed to Carew that the telephone bell never ceased 
ringing. In despair at last of obtaining the peace and 
quiet for which he longed, he had taken Hosein and 
slipped away for a couple of days to the camp near 

142 


THE DESERT HEALER 


143 


Blidah. Within a mile of his own camp he found the 
tents of a desert sheik who was making a leisurely way 
to Algiers for the annual gathering of chiefs. 

The Arab was an old acquaintance whose hospitality 
Carew had enjoyed on several occasions and an inter¬ 
change of visits was both necessary and advantageous. 
But it was not to listen to the querulous outpourings of 
a chief with a perpetual grievance that he had fled from 
General Sanois’ importunity, and foiled in his purpose, 
he had set out alone this morning an hour or so before 
the dawn to return to Algiers, leaving Hosein to follow 
later in the day when he had completed some arrange¬ 
ments in the camp. 

But in spite of the tedious interruptions which the old 
sheik’s demands on his time had made the two days had 
proved beneficial to him. Away from Algiers he had in 
a measure conquered the agitation of mind that had 
possessed him since the night he had rescued Lady Gera- 
dine from Abdul el Dhib. 

And it was of the frustrated horse-thief and his unful¬ 
filled threat that he was thinking as he drew Suliman 
to a standstill on the crest of a hill, a few miles outside 
the town, to watch the glory of the sunrise that was to 
him a never-failing pleasure. 

Abdul had so far made no attempt to put his murder¬ 
ous intention into practise and, still sceptical himself as 
to the real truth of the warnings he had received, Carew 
would never have given him a second thought but for the 
behaviour of his attendants whose continual and obvious 
watchfulness was a constant reminder of the menace 
hanging over him. Hosein was still anxious—there had 


144 


THE DESERT HEALER 


been difficulty in persuading him to remain behind at the 
camp this morning so loath was he to let his master ride 
alone—and Saba was still unhappy, a pathetic little figure 
of misery who clung to his protector refusing to be com¬ 
forted. And daily the revolver that Carew wore natur¬ 
ally thrust in the waistcloth of his Arab dress sagged 
uncomfortably in the pocket of his serge jacket until he 
laughed at himself for carrying it. Clad in the native 
robes he preferred for the last two days he had forgotten 
it, but as he glanced now around the little hillock on 
which he stood he pushed it further into the silken folds 
of his embroidered shawl with a slight smile of amuse¬ 
ment. The locality was reminiscent. It was here, after 
leaving Lady Geradine on the outskirts of Algiers, that he 
had chanced across Abdul and forced him to reveal the 
whereabouts of the stolen horse. But the smile passed 
quickly and his face clouded as his thoughts swung from 
the recovered stallion to the girl who had ridden him. 
Since the night of the opera he had not seen her but the 
memory of her was present with him always. The intol¬ 
erant anger she had once roused in him was gone and he 
was at a loss to actually define the feeling he now felt 
towards her. It was not interest, he told himself almost 
angrily, he had no interest in her, no wish to think of her, 
and he fought against the perpetual remembrance that 
never left him. Unable to combat what seemed to him 
a veritable obsession he resented the deep impression she 
had made, resented the humiliating breakdown of the will 
he had trained to obey him. More than ever was he 
determined to get out of Algiers at the first possible 
opportunity. He had come to hate the town and the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


145 


disturbing associations that would always be connected 
with it. The call of the desert, the lure of the legendary 
City of Stones was urging him powerfully as he sat with 
slackened reins looking dreamily at the golden sunrise, 
cursing the half promise he had made to General Sanois. 
But he had promised, or as good as promised, and facing 
his decision squarely for the first time he knew that the 
City of Stones must wait. With a little sigh of regret 
he searched for a cigarette in the folds of his waistcloth 
as he watched the glowing disc of the sun rise higher in 
the crimson flecked sky until the full light came with a 
sudden rush and the distinct city stood out before him 
clear and distinct in every detail. He scowled at it with 
sudden irritation and tightening his grip on the bridle, 
turned Suliman in the direction of the little village of 
Birmandreis. It was still very early. But for an occa¬ 
sional goatherd stalking gravely at the head of his flock, 
he had seen no sign of human life since he left the cross¬ 
country track he had taken from the camp and joined the 
plane-bordered highway that led to the village. Too 
early to return to the villa, he decided as he rode slowly 
along the well laid road listening to the sharp clip clop 
of his horse’s hoofs and breathing in the fragrance of 
the fresh morning air that was blowing against his face. 
There was no need to hurry. Time enough this afternoon 
to see Sanois and give him his long delayed answer. 
Until then he could forget it. 

Birmandreis was awake and stirring as he cantered 
through its miniature square and headed in the direction 
of El Biar. A short distance beyond the village he left 
the main road and turned down a narrow pathway in 


146 


THE DESERT HEALER 


search of a tiny Arab cafe that was known to him. The 
picturesque little building, almost hidden by a wide 
spreading fig tree, was at this early hour of the morning 
silent and apparently deserted, but the clatter of hoofs 
and Carew’s shout produced a sleepy and yawning pro¬ 
prietor who awoke into sudden and obsequious activity 
at the sight of this visitor. Slipping Suliman’s bridle 
through a ring in the wall Carew sat on a bench in the 
shadow of the fig tree while he waited for the Arab 
coffee for which the place was famous. It was brought 
at length by the half-caste aubergist who hovered about 
his early guest with eager loquaciousness. He had heard 
that his excellency had returned from the desert, he had 
hoped before this to have seen him at the Cafe Meduse. 
He trusted that the protracted journey had been pro¬ 
pitious. Monsieur was pleased to return to civilization? 
Monsieur was not pleased! HelasI and yet Algiers was 
gay this season—fuller than it had been for many years. 
Trade was good. Fot himself he had nothing to com¬ 
plain of, the cafe prospered and the visitors, the English 
visitors in particular, paid well—to Allah the praise! 

Undeterred by Carew’s monosyllabic replies he rambled 
on half in French half in Arabic discussing the district 
and the crops and the government taxes with fine 
impartiality, but with due regard to his listener’s well- 
known intimacy with the administrators of the country. 
But under his seemingly careless manner there was a 
suggestion of uneasiness that was very apparent. He 
moved restlessly as he talked, from time to time glancing 
almost furtively about him, and once or twice it seemed 
as if he were on the point of imparting some confidence 


THE DESERT HEALER 


147 


that nearly reached utterance but which died away in 
mumbled ambiguity before it was spoken. 

But when Carew had paid his modest score and was 
once more in the saddle the man appeared to come to 
a sudden decision. Pressing close up to the restless horse 
he stooped down under pretence of tightening a loosened 
girth, his fingers fumbling nervously at the scarlet leather 
straps. “There is venom in the jackal’s bite, O Sidi,” he 
muttered in the vernacular, pure Arab in his agitation, 
and drew back hastily as if already repenting the words 
he had nerved himself to say. And Carew, glancing down 
at his twitching face, knew that to question him would be 
useless, so he made no sign of understanding but with a 
careless nod and a perfunctory, “Go with God,” reined 
his horse back into the little lane and held him, sidling 
and catching at his bit, to a walk until a bend in the road 
hid them from the prying eyes that were doubtless watch¬ 
ing from behind the dense foliage of the fig tree. Then 
he gave Suliman his head wondering, as the spirited crea¬ 
ture broke into a headlong gallop, how near to attempted 
assassination he had been during the last half hour. That 
Abdul el Dhib, biding his time with oriental pertinacity, 
was somewhere in the vicinity, seemed beyond all ques¬ 
tion. But why he risked his rascally neck so near to 
Algiers or what were his relations with the half-caste owner 
of the cafe Carew was at a loss to conjecture. Sufficient 
that once again he had been warned and that the warn¬ 
ing had been given reluctantly and under stress of great 
personal fear. It spoke volumes that the fellow had 
found courage to say what he had said. 

With a muttered word of impatience Carew bent for- 


148 


THE DESERT HEALER 


ward and ran his fingers soothingly over Suliman’s glossy 
neck. Abdul was becoming a nuisance, and he found 
himself almost wishing that the difference between them 
could have been settled definitely once and for all at 
the Cafe Meduse that morning. Half tempted to retrace 
his steps and force the affair to an immediate conclusion 
he pulled up suddenly, turning in the saddle to scan the 
road behind him. But what was the good! Abdul had 
had his chance and for reasons of his own had neglected 
it. There was nothing to be gained and probably a good 
deal to be risked by putting temptation in his way a sec¬ 
ond time. After all, the quarrel was Abdul’s, not his. 
Let Abdul then make the first move—if, indeed, he in¬ 
tended to move at all. To Carew it seemed almost that 
his enemy had talked too much to be really dangerous. 
Babblers were seldom doers, he reflected, and dismissing 
the outlaw from his mind he rode on, leaving the road 
for a rough mule track by which he could skirt El Biar 
and reach Bouzarea from where he meant to return to 
Mustapha. 

Already the fresh morning wind had dropped and the 
day began to give promise of great heat unusual for the 
time of year. But to Carew, accustomed to the fierce 
sun of the desert, the warmth was welcome and, more 
at peace within himself than he had been for weeks, he 
turned his whole attention to the district through which 
Le was riding, a district known to him from boyhood but 
which he had not lately visited. The intervening years 
seemed to drop away as he noted and recognised each 
succeeding landmark. There was little change to be seen 
in the fruit groves and vineyards he was passing and 


THE DESERT HEALER 


149 


gradually he fell into a reverie, leaving Suliman to choose 
his own way along the stony track. 

Influenced by his surroundings he let himself dwell 
on early memories; memories of the handsome brilliantly 
clever father who had given up a public career of great 
promise to devote himself to the delicate wife who was 
his idol; and memories of the beautiful fragile mother 
whose influence, had she lived, might have made so great 
a difference in his own life. With all the strength of his 
boyish heart he had adored her and the memory of her 
had made him very tender with the wife who had repaid 
his devotion with coldness and deceit. But with the 
tragic ending of his own short married life he had closed 
his heart to the softening influences of memory and in 
the drawing room of the villa, a room he never entered, 
the portrait of his mother was veiled by heavy curtains 
that for the last twelve years had never been drawn. 
Twelve years! Twelve years of self-banishment and 
loneliness. At first it had been little short of hell, there 
had been times when the temptation to end it all had been 
almost overpowering, when only his strong will had kept 
him from self-destruction. But now he could think of 
it calmly—except for the one aching memory that never 
left him. Despite himself his thoughts turned to the 
child he had lost, the little son in w T hom so many hopes 
had been centered, and a passion of longing and regret 
filled him. If only the boy had been left to him! 'A 
look of intense pain swept across his face and his firm 
lips quivered as he tried to visualise the boy as he might 
have been now, a lad of fourteen, on the threshold of 
manhood. His son! God, how he wanted him still! And 


150 


THE DESERT HEALER 


from the child of his body who was lost to him his 
thoughts veered with sudden compassion to the child of 
his adoption, the little Arab waif he had saved from death 
to assuage his own loneliness, who was in his blindness 
and helplessness so utterly dependent on him. Poor 
little dreamer of dreams, besieging Allah hourly with 
prayers for the safety of the beloved protector who was 
all his world, he too was longing for the desert, for the 
freer, wilder life to which he had been born. 

Carew’s mind leaped forward to the coming interview 
with General Sanois. His promise given today, he 
would move heaven and earth to expedite matters and get 
away from Algiers as soon as possible. A speedy depar¬ 
ture should be a sine qua non of his acceptance. 

With a little laugh he bent forward to ease his weight 
off Suliman as the horse started to climb a steep ascent 
that led to the woods behind Bouzarea. The mule track 
was little used, rough and boulder strewn and in places 
almost overgrown with cactus among which the stallion 
picked his steps with careful precision born of experi¬ 
ence. Carew let him take his own way and sat with 
slackened rein as the big bay, straining and heaving, 
breasted the last hundred yards of sharp incline, his pow¬ 
erful muscles rippling against his rider’s knees. With a 
final effort, the loose stones flying from under his heels, 
he reached the summit and stood breathing deeply and 
whinnying in response to the caressing hand laid on his 
sweat drenched neck. Then he moved slowly forward 
with pricked ears and nervous gait along the track that 
had dwindled to a narrow hardly perceptible path. 
Desert bred, to Suliman the dense silent wood was a 


THE DESERT HEALER 


151 


place of lurking unknown terror to which he had never 
become accustomed and, snorting and starting, he evi¬ 
denced now his disapproval of a route that was highly 
distasteful to him. But wrapped in his own thoughts 
and used to his horse’s moods Carew did not heed his 
uneasiness. Like the district through which he had just 
passed the wood was alive with memories, a favourite 
haunt of childhood where he had roamed for hours at 
a time with Hosein as companion and playmate. Then 
the wood had been a region of mystery and enchantment, 
peopled with the malevolent djinns and horrible afreets 
that loomed so large in the Arab’s creed and of whom he 
discoursed with all the fluency and imagination of his 
race—tales to which the English boy, already deeply im¬ 
bued with the spirit of the country, listened half credu¬ 
lous, half unbelieving but always interested, wriggling 
for sheer joy even when his hair crisped on his head and 
he peered involuntarily into the depths of the thick un¬ 
dergrowth for the monstrous shapes and fiery eyes that 
Hosein’s eloquence made so real. Carew looked about 
him with an eagerness that brought a smile to his lips. 
Near here there had been a tiny clearing, always con¬ 
nected in his mind with a tale of especial weirdness that 
had been Hosein’s masterpiece—a tale of necromancers 
and demons, of beauty in distress, and the extravagant 
adventures of a sultan’s son whose heroic exploits had 
transcended all human possibility. How he had revelled 
in it, listening wide eyed and absorbed to Hosein’s sing¬ 
song intonations. Here, so went the story, the sorrowful 
princess, escaping from the enchanter who held her cap¬ 
tive, had met the wandering knight whom fate had sent 


152 


THE DESERT HEALER 


to rescue her; here, more beautiful than all the houris of 
paradise, sitting patiently upon the ground and veiled in 
her night black hair she had waited for her lover. 

The old tale was running through his head as a sharp 
curve in the path brought him to the entrance of the 
little clearing. Smaller it seemed than when his boyish 
eyes had looked upon it, and robbed somehow of the 
mystery that had been associated with it. To the man’s 
eyes now just an ordinary glade in an ordinary wood. 

But it was not the well remembered spot that held his 
attention. His gaze was rivetted on a figure sitting, like 
the princess of the story, motionless upon the ground at 
the foot of a gnarled cork oak. Not swathed in shimmer¬ 
ing eastern silks nor veiled in a cloud of dusky hair, 
but clad in the close fitting boyish riding suit in which he 
had first seen her she leant back comfortably against the 
tree, her bare head resting on the crinkly bark, her arms 
wrapped round her updrawn knees, whistling softly to 
a small green lizard palpitating on the moss beside her. 
The tiny creature with swelling throat and languorous 
swaying head was listening fascinated to the clear sweet 
trills charming it into immobility. Suliman’s neat feet 
made no sound on the soft earth and the girl was obvi¬ 
ously unaware of the increase to her audience. To 
back his horse silently and slip away before she noticed 
his presence was Carew’s first impulse, but despite his 
every inclination something stayed him in undecided hesi¬ 
tation. And the opportunity neglected he was given no 
second chance. Resenting the tight grip on his mouth 
and the sudden convulsive pressure of his rider’s knees 
Suliman, with a display of temper that was unusual, 


THE DESERT HEALER 


153 


bounded high on his hind legs snorting his indignation. 
Submitting to the inevitable with the best grace he could 
muster Carew dragged him down and swung to the 
ground, raising his hand to his forehead in the graceful 
salute that was in accordance with his Arab dress. 

“Good morning, Lady Geradine.” 

The lizard had fled but Marny had neither moved nor 
altered her position. She responded to his greeting with 
a faint smile, her eyes sweeping him frankly from head 
to foot as he stood, a picturesque commanding-looking 
figure, leaning against his horse whose muzzle was thrust 
contritely into his hand. 

“Good morning—desert man.” 

There was the least possible pause before the last two 
words and Carew’s tanned face flushed dully. “My name’s 
Carew,” he said gruffly. She nodded, looking at him with 
wide grave eyes and hunching her knees up closer to her chin. 

“I know,” she said, “Mrs. Chalmers told me before 
she left Algiers. You are Sir Gervas Carew—and you 
hate women. Why did you do it?” 

“Do what—” he asked, failing to grasp the context of 
her question. 

“Why did you trouble to interfere that night near 
Blidah?” she said quietly, but the quick blood sprang to 
her face as she spoke. 

He was silent for a few moments then, with a slow 
shrug: “Because you were English,” he answered tersely. 
She shook her head with a little smile of amusement. 

“But I’m not. Sure it’s Irish I am—glory be to God.” 
The brogue was unmistakable and despite himself 
Carew’s grave face relaxed. 


154 


THE DESERT HEALER 


“It’s the same thing,” he said with indifference. But 
she negatived his assertion with a scornful wave of the 
hand. 

“Not to us,” she said laughingly. Then she grew grave 
again, looking at him with undisguised interest. “Do 
you mean it, really?” she said with deliberation. “Do 
you mean that if I had been an Arab or a Frenchwoman 
you would have done—nothing?” 

He nodded in silent assent. 

“And because 1 was English, or you thought I was 
English, you set your prejudice on one side and did 
what you did—just to satisfy your esprit-de-race?” 

“Yes.” 

She looked away with an odd little laugh. “ You are 
very refreshing.” 

Carew scowled at the hint of mockery in her voice. 

“How so?” he asked stiffly. But she laughed again 
and shook her head, refusing to enlighten him. Then 
with a sudden change of manner she turned to him again, 
eyeing him almost wistfully. 

“You refused to shake hands with me—twice, Sir 
Gervas,” she said slowly, flushing slightly, “and I cut 
you dead at the opera. Shall we call quits—just for this 
morning—your prejudice against my rudeness? Can’t 
you forget, just for once, that you are talking to one of 
the sex you despise—I can’t help being a woman, I 
would much rather have been a man—and tell me the 
things you know so well, the things that nobody I meet 
with in Algiers seems to care about—the Arabs, the 
desert, and all this wonderful country. Not the desert 
the tourists go to but the real desert, far away in the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


155 


south there/’ she added eagerly, kneeling up suddenly 
to point with unexpected precision towards the region of 
which she spoke. Mechanically his eyes followed her 
outstretched hand. He was trying to understand his own 
strange hesitation. It would have been easy to excuse 
himself, alleging any plausible excuse that offered, and 
go as he had come leaving her to the solitude he had 
interrupted. But he did not want to go. The astounding 
truth came to him suddenly and his lips curved in cynical 
self-scorn. What sort of a fool was he, what strength of 
purpose had he that, professing to hate all women, he 
should surrender to the charm of this one woman? And 
wherein lay the charms he reluctantly admitted? Her 
beauty? He smiled more bitterly than before—he had 
learnt the worthlessness of outward loveliness. Was it 
then the diversity of mood she displayed? He glanced at 
her covertly as she sat leaning against the cork tree, 
apparently indifferent to his silence, her eyes fixed not 
on him but on the tips of her neat riding boots, whistling 
as she had whistled to the lizard. A boyish graceful 
figure, pulsing with life and health, bearing this morning 
no kind of resemblance to the white-faced fainting girl 
he had carried in his arms or the proud weary-looking 
woman he had seen at the opera. Which was the real 
woman? And what was her present motive? Was it 
really a disinterested and genuine desire to learn some¬ 
thing of the real life of the country that had led her to 
endeavour to detain him at her side—or was she merely 
amusing herself at his expense, flattered at having 
claimed the attention of a man known as a determined 
misogynist? His face darkened and meditated refusal 


156 


THE DESERT HEALER 


sprang to his lips. But the words died away unspoken. 
Flight was tantamount to a confession of weakness against 
which his pride rebelled. If she was playing with 
him—so much the worse for her. If, on the other hand, 
she was sincere in the request she had made—with a 
shrug he turned and led his horse to the further side of 
the little clearing, tethering him with no show of haste 
to the branch of a tree. 

And as he went Marny Geradine’s eyes followed him 
with a look of yearning sadness, and a deep sigh that 
was almost a sob escaped her. What had she done! 
What right had she to intrude herself upon him? Why 
add to her own unhappiness by prolonging an interview 
that would only bring her further sorrow. The joy of 
seeing him, of speaking with him, could lead to nothing 
but greater misery and regret. But the temptation had 
been stronger than she could withstand. She loved him 
so. And what harm could there be when his own indiffer¬ 
ence was so great! Why did he hate women? Mrs. 
Chalmers’ information had not gone beyond the bare 
fact and, herself reserved almost to fastidiousness, she 
had not sought to probe the reason of his hatred. What, 
after all, did it matter? The secrets of his past, if there 
were any secrets, were not her affair. Enough for her 
that he was a man who had devoted his life to relieving 
the suffering of the desert people amongst whom he lived. 
From the doctor’s warm-hearted wife she had learned 
the significance of the title by which he had called himself 
that night of terrible memory. So would she have him— 
the ideal she would treasure in her heart, a man magnifi¬ 
cent in his singleness of purpose. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


157 


He came back to her slowly, his face inscrutable as the 
people whose dress he wore, and sat down leisurely, 
Arab fashion, on the ground near her. Taking her 
literally at her word and prompted by her eager questions 
he found that speech was easier than he had anticipated. 
It was a subject on which he was well qualified to speak, 
a subject that lay very close to his heart, and gradually 
his attitude of barely concealed hostility wore away and 
he talked as, weeks ago, he had talked in his tent to 
Micky Meredith. But not of himself and his own work. 
Of these he said nothing, speaking only of the desert and 
its nomad inhabitants, of the charm and cruelty of the 
vast sandy wastes, of the petty wars and feuds that 
raged perpetually amongst the savage and belligerent 

tribes. His low even voice ran smoothly on, drawing no 
fanciful picture but relating faithfully the things that 
were the things he had himself seen, the life he had 
shared. While he dwelt on the glamour and fascination 
of the desert wilds he spared her nothing of the squalor 
and misery, the ghastly needless suffering that was bound 
up inextricably with the scenes he depicted. 

Eagerly she listened to him, happy with just the fact 
of his nearness, enthralled by the story he told so graph¬ 
ically and which held her spellbound. Her eyes fixed 

on the sunburnt face that was turned persistently away 
from her, she was no longer in the little clearing or 
even near to the Algiers that had proved so great a dis¬ 
appointment to her. She was far away in the burning 
south, riding beside him over the undulating sweeps of 
the restless sand, camping under the argent stars and 

living the life of which she had * dreamed—a life that 


158 


THE DESERT HEALER 


with all its savagery and primitive violence was yet 
cleaner than the one to which she was condemned. To be 
with him there, far from the artificial existence that sick¬ 
ened her, to live out her life beside him aiding him in the 
work of which he would not speak and serving him with 
all the strength of the love that was consuming her! She 
clenched her hands with the pain of her own imagining. 
A dream that could never be realised. There was no 
room for a woman’s love in the life he led. Alone, and 
always alone, he would follow the course he had set 
himself, a solitary dweller in the wilderness pitting his 
individual strength against the pain and suffering he 
sought to minimise. And, bound, what would be her 
loneliness when he rode for the last time out of her life 
leaving her to a misery that would be greater even than 
she had known before? 

A gasping sob escaped her and horrified at her lack of 
control she hid her burning face in her hands. But to 
Carew her agitation seemed only the natural consequence 
of the grim tale of ruthless Arab ferocity he had just 
concluded. 

“It is cruel, of course,” he said with a slow shrug, “but 
it is the way of life the whole world over—the strong 
preying on the weak, the eternal battle for existence, and 
a callousness that is born of necessity. And Arabs are 
only children, as all men at heart are children, fighting 
for what they want and often, from mere perversity, for 
what they do not want.” 

She nodded assent, not trusting her voice to answer 
him and furtively brushing away the tears of which she 
was ashamed. And he too fell silent, playing absently 


THE DESERT HEALER 


159 


with a length of creeper he twined and retwined between 
his long strong fingers, wondering at the interest she 
had evinced, wondering at the ease with which he 
had spoken to her. 

At last, through the silence that neither seemed able to 
break, came the trampling of horses’ hoofs. He looked 
up with a start and leapt to his feet, his hand reaching 
instinctively for the revolver in his waistcloth. For him¬ 
self he did not care, but if Abdul had tracked him here 
what of the girl beside him? Alone he would have been 
content to give his enemy the benefit of the doubt—but 
because of her he could take no chances. He would 
have to shoot at sight, or be shot himself. He moved 
quickly, screening her where she sat, and slid the heavy 
weapon from its resting place. But the next moment 
he jerked it back with a smothered ejaculation of relief. 
It was not Abdul el Dhib who rounded the bend in the 
narrow path but a neat typically English little man strad¬ 
dling with a jockey’s gait between the two horses he led. 
Only when he turned to find Marny close at his elbows 
did Carew realise that his face was wet with perspiration. 
With a gesture of impatience he brushed his hand across 
his forehead but he did not vouchsafe any explanation. 
She must have seen the revolver in his hand—explana¬ 
tions could wait. And standing quietly beside him, she 
did not seem in any hurry to ask but remained silent until 
the arrival of the groom. The little man brought the 
horses to a stand with no sign of surprise at the sight 
of the tall Arab-clad figure towering behind his mistress. 

“Nine o’clock, m’lady,” he announced stolidly, and 
backed her horse into position. 


160 


THE DESERT HEALER 


Marny laughed as she placed her foot in the stirrup 
Carew moved forward to hold. 

“Tanner is my timekeeper,” she explained, swinging 
easily into the saddle, “he always has a watch, and I lose 
mine as fast as I buy them,” she added, gathering up the 
reins and settling herself comfortably. 

Carew patted the neck of her horse for a moment 
without answering, then he looked up slowly and at sight 
of his face the laughter died out of her eyes. 

“Keep your man in sight when you come to the woods 
again, Lady Geradine,” he said gravely. She looked at 
him questioningly. 

“Do you mean it—seriously? I thought that so close 
to Algiers—” 

“You were close to Algiers before, and I would not 
warn you if I did not mean it seriously,” he interrupted 
with a touch of irritation in his voice, and stepped back 
with a salaam that she felt to be almost a dismissal. 
And it was without waiting to watch her ride away that 
he strode across the clearing to his own horse. He had 
no intention of accompanying her back to Algiers, he 
had outraged his principles sufficiently for one morning 
he assured himself with a smile that was not mirthful. 

Nor did he feel inclined to return immediately to the 
villa. 

During these last few weeks he had grown almost to 
hate it. He would go on to Bouzarea, telephone to 
Sanois and spend the rest of the day at the little suburb 
with a French doctor of his acquaintance. Perhaps in 
MorePs laboratory he would be able to forget the unrest 
that this morning’s meeting had revived so poignantly. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


161 


It was late in the afternoon when he rode into Algiers 
to keep the appointment made over the telephone that 
morning. 

At the moment General Sanois was living in barracks 
and Carew found him in his private room sitting 
alone before a huge desk that was heaped with a mass 
of papers. At his entrance the general rose and held 
out a welcoming hand. 

“Well,” he said eagerly, “you have decided?” and 
sank back into his chair with a little exclamation of satis¬ 
faction as Carew nodded affirmatively. 

“You relieve me of a difficulty, mon cher” he went on, 
pushing papers and telephone on one side to make room 
for the map he spread out with almost affectionate care. 
“I was at my wits’ end to find a substitute. My own 
men are no use, an officer would never get past the fron¬ 
tier. And the same applies to the accredited agents— 
those, that is to say, whom I have at my disposal. 
Remains you. And I think I shall not be wrong in 
saying that you will not fail,” he added confidently. 

Carew smiled faintly at the implied compliment which 
he knew to be no idle one but a genuine expression of 
opinion. 

“I’ll do my best,” he said briefly, with a slight shrug 
of embarrassment, “but I am not infallible,” he added, 
“and if I fail—” 

“You will at least have had a charming excursion,” 
cut in Sanois laughingly. “You will have broken new 
ground. You will probably have found a new disease 
and we shall have to send an expensively equipped medical 
mission to follow up your discovery, and you will 


162 


THE DESERT HEALER 


end by costing us the deuce and all of a lot of money. 
But that’s not my affair,” he added, tapping the gold lace 
on his sleeve significantly, and turned once more to the 
large scab map he had laid out. 

Carew hitched the folds of his heavy burnous closer 
round him and drew his chair nearer to the table. 

“I am ready to start almost at once. My own prepara¬ 
tions can be concluded in a week. I am anxious to get 
out of Algiers, and if you keep me waiting indefinitely— 
well, then, I can’t promise that when you want me you 
will find me.” He smiled at Sanois’ whistle of dismay 
for there had been an undertone of peremptoriness in his 
voice that the general recognised. 

“A week?” he said rather doubtfully. “You don’t give 
us much time, my friend. It will take longer than a week 
to settle this affair. But I’ll do what I can. And now to 
business.” 

When the details of the expedition had been discussed 
in every particular and Carew rose at last to go night 
had fallen. He refused the general’s invitation to dine 
with the mess and found himself obliged to repeat his 
refusal more than once before he reached the barrack 
yard. Usually he was glad to accept the hospitality of 
the officers with whom he was a frequent and popular 
guest but tonight he wanted to be alone. 

Riding through the crowded streets Suliman occupied 
his exclusive attention, but when the town had been 
left behind and the ascent to Mustapha begun he let his 
thoughts range forward to the coming journey. Regret¬ 
fully he put away from him the temptation of the City of 
Stones. It would have to be for another time. He was 


THE DESERT HEALER 


163 


pledged to Sanois now and, the general himself bound 
down to a promise, he had at last something definite to 
go on. Not that there was much for him, personally, to 
arrange. The change of route called for little alteration 
in the preparations he had already made for an extended 
tour in the desert. And the boy would go in either case. 
He had spent most of his young life in the saddle and his 
apparently frail little body was capable of astonishing 
endurance. To leave him behind would be to break his 
heart—and Carew could not do without him. Tonight 
the air was strangely soft, heavy with the scent of 
flowers, and a brooding silence that was reminiscent of 
the solemn hush of the desert seemed to have closed 
down over all nature. Not a tree moved, not a dog 
barked, and Carew had the curious feeling that he was 
riding through a place of the dead. Amongst the Arabs 
it was an omen of death, a sure and certain sign that for 
some human soul the wings of Azrael were beating down¬ 
ward from the realms of the blessed. For his? With 
a philosophical shrug he turned in the saddle to look 
back at the newly risen moon, a crescent slip of silver 
in the sky, and then sent Suliman flying in the direction of 
the villa. 

The door of the wall was open, and Hosein, ghostlike 
in his white draperies, emerged from the deep shadows of 
the entrance as Carew dismounted. He took the horse 
in silence, still evidently nursing his grievance of the 
morning, and half amused, half annoyed by his servant’s 
tacit expression of disapproval Carew omitted his own 
customary greeting and swinging on his heel walked up 
to the house. 


164 


THE DESERT HEALER 


In the Moorish hall, brilliantly lit by three large hang¬ 
ing lamps of beaten silver, Saba was waiting. And as 
his sensitive ears caught the almost imperceptible sound 
of soft leather against the marble pavement he darted 
forward with a wild cry of joy and fell, laughing and 
sobbing together, into the arms stretched out to catch him. 
Tossing him up on his shoulder, Carew carried him, chat¬ 
tering with excitement, through the jasmine scented 
courtyard to the big bedroom at the back of the house, 
there to cope with a flow of endless questions which 
ceased not but penetrated shrilly even to the distant bath¬ 
room. And standing beside the dressing table, his slim 
fingers straying caressingly among the orderly arranged 
toilet appointments, he was still talking when Carew came 
back from his tub. Then the questions gave place to a 
detailed description of his own small doings during the 
last three days and he rambled on discoursively, while 
Carew changed into the fresh robes laid out. for him, 
carrying his listener through endless imaginary adven¬ 
tures and concluding with the grave announcement that 
Derar, the fat butler, had assuredly incurred the wrath 
of Allah for his wife had presented him that morning 
with yet another unwelcome daughter “—which, as your 
lordship knows, is the fifth,” he added with fine scorn. 

And glad that for the moment the boy appeared to have 
forgotten his fears, Carew let him talk and finally took him 
with him to the dining room where, perched cross-legged 
on a cushion beside the table and made happy with a plate 
of fruit and sweetmeats, he continued to chatter throughout 
the formal dinner served by a dejected, tearful-looking Derar 
and Hosein, who had recovered his accustomed serenity. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


165 


Though- preferring the simplicity of camp life, Carew, 
in his town house, followed early traditions and main¬ 
tained a certain state and ceremony. Many of the servants 
were old retainers, and Derar had been butler to the 
late Sir Mark Carew. And the elderly survivor, con¬ 
servative to the backbone and highly endowed with a 
sense of his own importance, was largely responsible for 
the continuance of the old regime that still prevailed at 
the villa. And so it was that, even when he was alone, 
Carew dined nightly in the huge room where the table 
seemed a tiny island set in the midst of a vast marble 
sea. But this evening he had glanced about him once or 
twice during the protracted meal with a faintly puzzled 
look in his sombre eyes. What made the room tonight 
appear so empty—so chill and lifeless? It was not the 
lack of guests that troubled him, he was used to being 
alone, but a strange yearning for something he was at a 
loss to define. Was it the preliminary warnings of middle 
age that, urging a remembrance of his forty years, had 
induced the unaccustomed feeling of lassitude and melan¬ 
choly that seemed to have taken hold of him? He 
almost laughed at the thought. For some it might be the 
beginning of a gradual decline of force and ability, but 
for himself, he had never felt fitter or stronger. It was 
just Algiers, he told himself as he lingered over the cup 
of thick, sweet coffee that had become as indispensable 
to him as to any native of the country, Algiers—and a 
consciousness of intense and profound boredom. Thank 
heaven it wouldn’t last much longer. Life on the march 
was too strenuous to admit of ennui. 

Calling to Saba he went to the study adjoining his bed- 


166 


THE DESERT HEALER 


room and from there out on to the wide verandah that 
overlooked the garden. 

For a while he smoked in silence that was punctuated 
at intervals by the blind boy’s fitful remarks to which 
he replied briefly with an inattention that was not lost 
upon his small companion, for gradually he, too, fell 
silent. 

The night was very still. Directly before the verandah 
a broad streak of moonlight stretching like a path of 
silver to the distant boundary wall made blacker the dark¬ 
ness that enveloped the rest of the garden where trees 
and flowering shrubs loomed large and fantastic in the 
murky gloom. The heavy scent of flowers was almost 
overpowering, languorous and sleep-inducing as the smell 
of incense. And the brooding hush that Carew had 
noticed earlier in the evening seemed now even more pene¬ 
trating and intense. There was in the air a feeling of 
unnatural suspense, a breathless sensation of expectancy 
like the deep hush that precedes a storm. In the desert 
Carew would have known what it portended, but here in 
Algiers he could not account for it. Was it perhaps only 
his own imagination magnifying the quiet of an ordinary 
evening into something that approached the abnormal? 
He was not given to imagination, but he could not rid 
himself of the impression of a coming calamity that 
momentarily made him more wide awake and alert. And 
with the sense of waiting there came again the feeling of 
depression and melancholy he had experienced during 
dinner. How empty and lonely the house had seemed! 
He had never noticed it before. Why did he notice it 
now? And as he pondered it there seemed to rise before 


THE DESERT HEALER 


167 


him the semblance of a figure standing in the brilliant 
strip of moonlight, a slender, graceful figure whose 
boyish riding dress no longer moved him to intolerant 
disgust. For an instant he stared with almost fear at 
the delicate oval face that appeared so strangely close to 
his, looking straight into the pain-filled haunting eyes that 
seemed to be tearing the very heart out of him. Then 
a terrible oath broke from his rigid lips and in the 
revulsion of feeling that swept over him he wrenched his 
gaze away, cursing with bitter rage the day he had ever 
seen her. Not her nor any other woman—so help him 
God! 

A stifled whimper and a tiny hand slid tremblingly into 
his, made him realise the passionate utterance that had 
been forced from him. He caught the boy in his arms 
and soothed him with remorseful tenderness. “Angry 
with thee—when am I ever angry with thee, thou little 
foolish one?” he murmured gently in response to the sob¬ 
bing question that came muffled from the folds of his 
robes in which Saba’s head was buried. Content with 
his answer the child lay still. And the clinging touch of 
his fingers, the soft warm weight of his slim little body 
brought a measure of consolation to the lonely man who 
held him. 

For a long time Carew sat without moving, staring into 
the shadowy garden. Save for the shrilling of a cicada 
in the grass near by the deep silence was unbroken. And 
soon even the insect ceased its monotonous chirp, 
abruptly as it had begun. 

Carew had been up since before daybreak, and lulled 
by the intense quiet and the heaviness of the night, he 


168 


THE DESERT HEALER 


began to be aware that drowsiness was stealing over him. 
He was almost asleep when the vague impression of a 
distant sound, a curious slithering sound that ended in 
a faint thud, penetrated to his only half conscious mind 
and roused him to sudden and complete wakefulness. 
The noise seemed to have come from the further end of 
the garden. Who was abroad in the garden at this time 
of night? As he stared keen-eyed into the darkness his 
brain was working rapidly. He had thought the child to 
be asleep, but from a slight movement in his arms he 
knew that Saba too was awake and listening intently, as 
he himself was listening. To get the boy away before 
the happening he believed inevitable was his first care. 
Without altering his own position he slid him silently 
behind his chair with a low breathed injunction to go. 
But with a passionate gesture of refusal Saba clung to 
him and Carew was obliged to use unwilling force to 
unclasp the slender fingers twined desperately in his thick 
burnous. 

“Go!” he whispered again peremptorily. And as the 
boy crept slowly away he leant forward in his chair once 
more, waiting with braced muscles and straining ears for 
any further sound that should betray his nocturnal visi¬ 
tor’s whereabouts. But the few moments’ attention given 
to Saba had been moments used by another to advantage. 
The attack came with unexpected and noiseless sudden¬ 
ness, from a quarter he least expected, and it was only 
his acute sense of smell that saved him. With the rank, 
animal-like odour of the desert man reeking in his nostrils 
he leaped to his feet, swerving as he turned. And 
his quick, instinctive movement saved his life, for the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


169 


driving knife thrust aimed at his heart failed in its 
objective and glanced off his arm .gashing it deeply. With 
a snarl of rage el Dhib thrust again. And, his right hand 
temporarily numbed and unable to draw the revolver at 
which his blood drenched fingers fumbled nervelessly, 
Carew caught the swinging arm with his left hand and 
flung his whole weight forward against his opponent. 
They fell with a crash, the Arab undermost, and grappled 
in the darkness twisting and heaving with straining limbs 
and labouring breath. 

Crippled, Carew at first could do little more than 
retain his hold, but as the numbness passed from his 
wounded arm he managed with a desperate effort to jerk 
himself upward until his knees were pressing with crush¬ 
ing force on Abdul’s chest and rigid forearm and, rolling 
sideways, he tore the knife from the fingers that clung 
to it tenaciously. But the manoeuvre cost him the 
advantage he had gained. With a lithe panther-like move¬ 
ment of his sinewy body the Arab slipped uppermost, his 
hands at the other’s throat. And conscious that he was 
fighting for his life, Carew put forward his utmost power 
to meet the strength he knew to be equal to his own. 
Locked in a mortal embrace that seemed to admit of only 
one ending they struggled with deadly purpose, writhing 
to and fro on the floor of the verandah until a sidelong 
jerk from one of them sent them over the edge and they 
rolled, still gripping fiercely, into the garden beneath. The 
drop was a short one, but in falling Carew’s head struck 
against the abutment of the marble stairway and for a 
moment he lay stunned. And Abdul who had fallen on 
top of him was not able to complete the work he had 


170 


THE DESERT HEALER 


begun. Warned by the lights that flashed up in the villa, 
unable to recover the knife he had lost, with a parting 
curse he turned and ran for the shelter of the shadowy 
trees, doubling like a hare as he sped across the strip of 
brilliant moonlight. And still dazed from the blow on 
his head Carew staggered to his feet and stood staring 
stupidly after him, swaying dizzily as he strove to think 
collectedly. But as the flying figure almost reached the 
friendly darkness that would cover his flight the momen¬ 
tary cloud lifted from Carew’s brain and he wrenched 
the revolver from his waistband. Yet with his finger 
pressing on the trigger he paused irresolute. Not at an 
unarmed man—not in the back! That was murder —no 
matter how great the provocation. With a smothered 
exclamation he dropped his arm to his side. But the 
screaming whine of a bullet tearing past his head and 
a sharp crack behind him told him that Hosein was 
troubled by no such scruples. And with mingled feelings 
he watched Abdul el Dhib, caught at the moment he 
thought himself safe, plunge forward on his face and 
lie twisting in the agony of death. 

When Carew reached him and lifting him with prac¬ 
tised hands supported him against his knee, the dying 
man’s eyes rolled upward to the grave face bending over 
him and his contorted features relaxed in a grin of 
ghastly amusement. 

“This was ordained, lord,” he gasped painfully, a pink¬ 
ish foam gathering on his lips, “thou or I—and Allah 
has chosen. To Him the praise,” he added mockingly, 
and choked his life away on the crimson tide that poured 
from his mouth. 


CHAPTER VII 


Silence had settled again over the little oasis which 
m hour before had been the scene of noisiest activity. 

Scattered amongst the palms and thorn trees the debris 
of a camp evidenced the passing of a caravan, and three 
or four miles away the train of lurching camels with its 
escort of mounted Arabs was still visible moving steadily 
over the rolling waste, heading for the south. Seated 
cross-legged on the warm ground, idly dribbling sand 
through his long, brown fingers, Carew watched it with 
a feeling of envy, longing for the time when he could 
once more lead his own caravan towards the heart of the 
great desert whither his thoughts turned perpetually. 

But for the promise made to General Sanois he would 
already have left Algiers. The small attraction the town 
had once had for him had vanished completely in the 
mental disturbance that had dominated him during the 
last few weeks. And Sanois’ preparations dragged in¬ 
terminably. Daily Carew was tempted to put his half¬ 
laughing threat into execution and abandon the whole 
enterprise. But the constant delays were no fault of the 
General who was straining every nerve to complete his 
arrangements—and Carew had given his word. There 
was nothing for it but to wait with what patience he could 
muster. 

Out of tune with himself and his surroundings he had 
gone for distraction to Biskra to attend the annual race 
meeting, and for three crowded days he had been able, 
171 


172 


THE DESERT HEALER 


partially, to forget the strange unrest that beset him. 
But only partially. The little desert town, filled to over¬ 
flowing for the great event of the year, was too small 
for chance meetings to be avoided and several times he 
had glimpsed Geradine, blustering and insufferable there 
as in Algiers. But keeping closely to his own circle of 
acquaintances Carew had escaped coming into contact 
with the man for whom he had conceived a hatred that 
was inexplicable. And in Biskra he had other interests 
besides the racing to engage his attention. Amongst the 
Arab chiefs who poured into the town from far and wide 
he had encountered many old friends. And it was in 
response to the earnest request from one of them, the 
strangest Arab he had ever known, that Carew had left 
Biskra early the previous day to ride with him the first 
couple of stages of a journey that would take the sheik 
weeks to accomplish. 

It was long since they had met and the intervening 
years had brought startling and unforeseen changes into 
the life of the man Carew remembered as a light-hearted 
captain of Spahis who had been more Frenchman than 
Arab in his tastes and inclinations. 

Carew’s gaze turned musingly to the chief who lay 
stretched on the ground beside him. Wrapped in his 
burnous, his face hidden in his arms, he had slept, or 
seemed to sleep throughout the hour of the siesta and 
not even the clamour and bustle of the departing caravan 
had roused him. Carew had watched the breaking up of 
the camp with more than ordinary interest. A headman 
had superintended the arrangements with precision and 
despatch that savoured more of military methods than 


THE DESERT HEALER 


173 


the usual haphazard procedure prevalent among journey¬ 
ing Arabs; and the escort, of whom a dozen or so re¬ 
mained at the further side of the oasis chatting with 
Hosein, were all obviously fighting men, extraordinarily 
disciplined and orderly. 

Still in disgrace with the Administration for the wiping 
out of a contiguous tribe ten years before, for what pur¬ 
pose had Said Ibn Zarrarah, ex-captain of Spahis and 
paramount chief of a large district, not only fostered the 
warlike instincts of a people with fighting traditions be¬ 
hind them but endeavoured, apparently with success, to 
engraft on them the European tactics he had himself 
learnt from the rulers of the country? It was an in¬ 
triguing question Carew had pondered while his com¬ 
panion slept. In the old days France had had no more 
devoted adherent than the dashing young Spahi. Was 
there now any ulterior motive in the militarism he en¬ 
couraged in his people, or was it merely a means by 
which he sought to distract his mind from a life that 
Carew knew to be uncongenial? 

A younger son with no immediate prospect of suc¬ 
ceeding to the leadership of the tribe, with aspirations 
that had never found fulfillment in his desert home, he 
had, on joining his regiment, become thoroughly Galli- 
cised, spending long periods of leave in Paris and unlike 
the average semi-educated native assimilating only what 
was best in western thought and culture. Unspoilt by 
the flattery and attention heaped on him, notorious for 
his cold disregard of women, he had lived for his regi¬ 
ment and the racing stable he maintained in France. The 
death of his elder brother, killed in the raid that had put 


174 


THE DESERT HEALER 


him out of favour with the Government, had called him 
from the life he loved to assume the cares and duties of 
a chieftainship he had never desired. Hotly resenting 
the heavy censure of the authorities on an action that 
had been misrepresented to them, and too proud to ex¬ 
plain the necessity that had forced his hand, he had sev¬ 
ered all connections with the past and had retired to his 
desert fastness to combat the suspicions of the elders of 
his tribe who had distrusted him for his want of religious 
zeal and for his adherence to the very people with whom 
he was in disgrace. 

The irony of the situation had not been lost on him 
and it had been a certain satisfaction to prove conclu¬ 
sively his loyalty to his father’s house. The Governor 
who had condemned his action had been superseded 
shortly afterwards, but the chief of the Ibn Zarrarah 
had ignored the change and made no effort towards 
reconciliation. His heart turned often in secret to the 
France he had known and loved, he held aloof from his 
old associates, keeping strictly to his own territory and 
immersing himself in the affairs of his tribe. He had 
lived down the mistrust of even the most conservative 
of his people, conforming outwardly to an orthodoxy that 
gave him no inward consolation. 

This year, for the first time in ten years, he had yielded 
to the long suppressed desire to revisit the scene of for¬ 
mer pleasures. In the old days he had been a conspicuous 
and well-known figure at the annual race meeting at Bis¬ 
kra, popular with Arab and Frenchman alike and famous 
for his stud of magnificent horses. The visit just con¬ 
cluded had been made under very different circumstances. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


175 


Unrecognised and almost unremembered he had kept en¬ 
tirely to the company of his own countrymen, a spectator 
only where once he had been a moving spirit. 

The experience had been fraught with more pain than 
pleasure. He was human enough to feel the difference 
keenly, philosophical enough to be contemptuous of his 
own bitterness. But all his philosophy could not heal the 
ache in his heart or still the longings quickened by the 
sound of the soft musical language he had spoken for 
years in preference to his own. 

And now when Carew bent forward and touched him 
with a half-laughing “Ho, dreamer!” in the vernacular, 
he sat up with a jerk revealing dark melancholy eyes that 
were not dulled with sleep but hard and bright with con¬ 
centrated thought. “For the love of God speak French,” 
he ejaculated. “Oh, I know I’m a fool,” he went on 
with a helf-defiant ring in his voice, “a bigger fool than 
most—I always was. I was a fool to forget that I was 
an Arab, to try and imagine myself a Frenchman. I 
was a fool, when my brother Omair remained childless, 
not to realise that I might at any time be called upon to 
give up all that made life pleasant for me. And when 
he was killed I was a fool to do what I did. You know 
what happened. I went to Algiers to make my amende 
honorable for having broken the peace of the border, and 
the Governor—that fat old Faidherbe who was always 
trembling for his own skin—waited for no explanation 
but lost his temper and cursed me. I was ‘an ingrate 
to be viewed with the deepest suspicion,’ I was ‘a turbu¬ 
lent chief who was a menace to the country.’ I was 
everything that was vile and contemptible and dishonour- 


176 


THE DESERT HEALER 


able. I lost my own temper in the end and cursed him 
back until I didn’t know how I got out of the Palace 
without being arrested. I left Algiers within the hour 
and Faidherbe misrepresented the whole case to the Min¬ 
istry of the Interior, and I have been under suspicion 
ever since. But what else could I do? I had to fight. 
I loved Omair. When it came to the pinch I found that 
my love for him was greater than my love for France. 
I fought to defend his honour, and what I did later I 
did to avenge his death—do you blame me?” 

His restless eyes swept upward in frowning enquiry 
and a momentary gleam lit them as Carew shook his 
head. 

“No! but France blames me, and it hurts—damnably. 
France—” his voice softened suddenly— “what she meant 
to me once! I loved her, I love her still—the more fool 
I! She is like a woman—fickle, undependable—courting 
you today, spurning you tomorrow. But I cannot hate 
her as I hate women though she has hurt me as women 
have hurt me. Women! God’s curses on them!” he 
exclaimed violently. “I always detested them, always 
avoided them, but they made me suffer despite myself. 
For love of a woman Omair died. The love of a woman 
took from me my best friend, an Englishman as you are, 
just when I needed him most. Bon Dieu, how I loathe 
them!” He flung himself back on the sand with a harsh 
laugh. 

The confidence Carew had been expecting ever since 
they left Biskra had come with a rush. Much of the 
story was known to him already. A garbled account of 
the chief’s delinquencies had been given to him years ago 


THE DESERT HEALER 


177 


in Algiers, more he had learned from his numerous Arab 
friends. That there were faults on both sides was evi¬ 
dent, but it was clearly a case where leniency might very 
well have been extended to a chief who had been one 
of France’s warmest admirers. It had been the last blun¬ 
der of a weak and unscrupulous Governor whose term 
of office had been a series of unfortunate happenings. 
To curry favour with the home authorities he had 
screened his own hastiness and magnified the chief’s 
offence, forgetting that his scapegoat had it in his power 
to retaliate in a way that would have cost France much. 
The Ibn Zarrarah were a large and powerful tribe whose 
sphere of influence was far reaching and, flushed at the 
moment with victory, a revolt of more than ordinary 
magnitude might easily have occurred. Their chief, 
seething under a sense of injustice, a very little might 
have turned the scale in favour of rebellion—and wars 
of suppression were expensive. And often Carew had 
wondered not at what Said Ibn Zarrarah had done but 
at what he had left undone. But now as he sat still 
raking the loose warm sand with his fingers he was think¬ 
ing more of the chief’s concluding words than of his 
grievance against the French Government. 

He Jooked again at the distant caravan, a mere smudge 
now on the horizon. He had spent a day and a night 
with the Arab and his train of followers and he had 
reason to know that one of those slow moving camels 
carried the closely screened travelling box of the wife 
of the man who had cursed all women as heartily and 
as passionately as ever he had done himself. 

“You loathe women—and yet you are married,” he 


178 


THE DESERT HEALER 


said slowly, without turning his head or altering the direc¬ 
tion of his gaze. 

The chief rolled over with a growl of angry impatience. 

“For the sake of the tribe,” he flashed. “Do you think 
by any chance that I did it to please myself! Do I do 
anything to please myself in these days? I put it off as 
long as possible, but my people were insistent—the house 
of Zarrarah had need of an heir.” 

“And your wife—?” The involuntary question sur¬ 
prised Carew even more than his listener. To an ordi¬ 
nary Arab the remark would have been beyond the 
bounds of all etiquette and convention; to Said Ibn Zar¬ 
rarah, western in his ideas even with regard to the sex 
he despised, it was curious only as coming from the man 
it did. 

“She is happy with her child,” he said with a shrug of 
indifference, and searched for a cigarette in the folds of 
his burnous. But despite his outward show of unconcern 
it seemed as if his answer had scarcely contented himself 
for his black brows were knitted gloomily and his face 
almost sullen as he sat smoking in silence with his melan¬ 
choly eyes fixed on the boundless space before him. 
“Why should she not be happy?” he burst out at length. 
“She has everything she asks for—the only wonder is 
she asks so little. She has more liberty allowed her than 
the average Arab woman—and is too rigid an Arab to 
make use of it. She is alone in my harem, she has no 
rival to make her life miserable—and she has borne a 
son to the house of Zarrarah.” 

She had borne a son—the supreme desire of the eastern 
woman. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


179 


A shadow crossed Carew’s face as he turned and 
looked at his companion curiously. “And is that no com¬ 
pensation to you? There are those who would envy 
you your son, Sheik,” he said, with a touch of bitterness 
in his voice. But his question went unanswered and he 
changed the conversation abruptly. 

“You were a fool to leave it to Faidherbe,” he said 
with friendly candour. “You knew what he was, and 
the attitude he was likely to adopt. You had your chance 
with the change of administration. His successor is a 
very different type. He would at least have listened to 
your explanations with an open mind. He would listen 
to them now if you chose to make them. But the first 
move must come from you. You cannot expect the 
Government to make overtures to one who is suspect. 
I heard the story at the time, of course—Faidherbe’s 
version of it, that is to say. But I could do nothing then. 
I was practically new to the country and I was not—” 

“You were not El Hakim—the eye of France,” cut in 

the chief with a swift smile. Carew laughed. 

“Is that what they call me? A blind eye, Sheik, where 
my friends are concerned.” The chief nodded. “That 
I have also heard. And that is why you are trusted-r- 
trusted as few men are in Algeria,” he added gravely. 

And for a time he relapsed into silence and Carew 

waited for the suggestion he preferred the other to make. 

He had a certain influence now with the Government, he 
could pave the way for a reconciliation—if Said Ibn 
Zarrarah really desired it. But did he desire it? It was 
clear from what he had said that in spite of his very 
natural feeling of resentment the chief nourished no 


180 


THE DESERT HEALER 


schemes of revenge and had no thought of turning the 
large forces at his command against the country he still 
admired. But wounded in his deepest susceptibilities, 
embittered by years of solitary brooding, would his pride 
allow him to make overtures that must of necessity be 
humiliating and would require a certain moral courage 
to perform? And his present position was a strong one, 
apart from the injury to his feelings he had little to lose 
or gain either way. 

It was a problem the chief would have to decide for 
himself. In the years that Carew had worked in the 
country he had learned to keep his own counsel. He 
never interfered or gave gratuitous advice, and was chary 
even of advising when asked. He had come to have a 
deep insight into the workings of the native mind and he 
had long since realised the value of neutrality. His role 
of intermediary was possible only so long as his sym¬ 
pathies remained equally divided between the people of 
the land and their foreign rulers. 

And now he waited long for Said Ibn Zarrarah to 
speak, so long that more than once he glanced covertly 
at the watch on his wrist. It was time, and past the 
time, that the chief should start to overtake the caravan 
that was now no longer distinguishable, and time that he 
himself set out on the fifty mile ride back to Biskra. 
Travelling with no camping impedimenta to hinder him 
he had reckoned on spending the night at a tiny village 
that was known to him and which made a convenient 
halting place. He would have to ride hard if the squalid 
little collection of mud huts was to be reached before the 
light gave out. Not that either he or Hosein minded a 


THE DESERT HEALER 


181 


night spent supperless under the stars, but there were 
the horses to be considered. There was, too, an odd 
feeling in the air that he had only just realised. The 
heat that all day had been intense was now suffocating. 
And as he raised his hand to brush away the moisture 
lying thick on his forehead, it dawned on him that he 
had been doing so frequently during the last hour. In¬ 
stinctively his eyes swept the horizon. There was nothing 
to break the uninterrupted view, and seen through the 
shimmering haze that eddied from its surface, the wide 
expanse of sand looked like the rolling waves of a vast 
leaden sea. A sullen angry sea that seemed to heave 
and writhe as though straining to let loose the tremendous 
forces lying dormant within its mighty bosom. And far 
off to the southeast, where sky and sand met, a faint 
dark line like an inky smudge caught Carew’s attention 
and sent him to his feet with a sharp exclamation. 

“You were better with your people, Sheik.” 

At the sound of his voice the chief looked up with a 
start and sudden anxiety flashed into his eyes as they 
followed the direction of the other’s pointing finger. 
Then his gaze turned southward and for a moment he 
stood peering intently as if striving to visualise the cara¬ 
van that had long since passed out of sight. Without 
moving he shouted to his men and almost before the 
words died on his lips his horse was beside him and he 
swung into the saddle. 

Bending down he caught Carew’s outstretched hand in 
a grip that conveyed much he did not utter. 

“Some day I may ask you to speak for me,” he mut¬ 
tered hurriedly, and was gone in a swirl of dust and sand. 


182 


THE DESERT HEALER 


For a minute or two Carew lingered, looking after 
him, then turned to Hosein who was bringing up the 
horses. The man jerked his head towards the east. “My 
lord has seen?” he murmured. Carew nodded. “It may 
pass,” he said, running his fingers caressingly over Suli- 
man’s neck before gathering up the reins. But Hosein 
shook his head. “It will come,” he asserted positively, 
“they know,” he added, pointing to the horses whose 
nervous fidgeting and sweat-drenched coats evidenced 
uneasiness. 

“Then in God’s name let it come,” replied Carew with 
a short laugh, “are we children to fear a sandstorm?” 
And Hosein’s grim features relaxed in an answering grin 
as he held his master’s stirrup for him to mount. 

Riding, the air seemed less stagnant but the heat in¬ 
creased momentarily and the deep silence of the desert 
was more strangely silent than usual. 

The horses were racing, urged by instinct, and splashes 
of white foam thrown back from Suliman’s champing 
jaws powdered Carew’s dark burnous like flakes of snow. 

But it was Said Ibn Zarrarah rather than the approach¬ 
ing sandstorm that engageed his mind as he leant forward 
in the saddle to ease his weight from the galloping horse. 
Said’s case was only one of thousands of others, he re¬ 
flected. East or west the problems of life were very 
similar. The point of view might differ but the prob¬ 
lems remained the same. The eternal struggle between 
duty and inclination was not confined only to the so- 
called civilized races but raged as fiercely here under the 
burning African sun as in many more temperate climes. 
And Said Ibn Zarrarah, trained from boyhood to des- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


183 


potism and self-indulgence, had shown more moral cour¬ 
age than he himself had done. Surrendering to a sense 
of obligation the Arab had gone back to the life he 
loathed and assumed duties that were distasteful to him, 
while he, for a private sorrow, had shirked the responsi¬ 
bilities that were his by inheritance. It was a humiliating 
truth that was indisputable. 

And from Said Ibn Zarrarah, Carew’s thoughts wan¬ 
dered to the young wife who was waiting for the coming 
of the husband who had married her only to satisfy the 
wishes of his people. It was a strange marriage even 
for an Arab woman. Though treated evidently with un¬ 
usual consideration, her life must be a difficult one. 
Rigidly orthodox, as there was every reason to suppose 
she was, her lord’s western tendencies and liberality of 
thought would alone be sufficient cause for perplexity 
and bewilderment. And solitary in a harem that was 
probably a marvel of oriental sumptuousness, surrounded 
by everything that a woman could desire, with no spoken 
wish ungratified, might she not still be longing for more 
than the cold and empty symbols of a lavish generosity 
that was prompted only by a sense of what was properly 
her due as the wife of a powerful sheik? “She has 
everything she asks for—the only wonder is she asks 
so little.” Unloved and perhaps yearning for the love 
denied her, were her wants so few by reason of the one 
want that made all others valueless to her? Said, with 
his magnificent physique and fine features, was an arrest¬ 
ing figure of a man who would appeal to any woman, 
more particularly to one who could have had little or no 
opportunity of seeing other men with whom to contrast 


184 


THE DESERT HEALER 


him. Small wonder if the girl-bride had fallen in love 
with her stalwart, handsome husband. And he? Was 
love for her dawning.in spite of his professed hatred of 
women—was the mother of his son already more to him 
than he realised? He was not as indifferent to her wel¬ 
fare as his words had seemed to imply. He had gone 
unnecessarily out of his way to endeavour to represent 
her as contented with her lot. That in itself was sig¬ 
nificant. And the look that had leaped to his eyes when 
Carew drew his attention to the threatening storm was 
certainly not anxiety on his own behalf. 

What did the coming years hold for him and the 
woman he had married? The woman—Carew checked 
his wandering thoughts with a bitter smile. What had 
he to do with women and the love of women? 

Jerking his head angrily he waved Hosein to his side, 
and as he turned in the saddle a sudden gust of wind, 
scorching as the heat from an oven door, struck against 
his face and a heavy peal of thunder crashed through 
the intense stillness, reverberating sharply like the pro¬ 
longed rattling of artillery. For an instant the horses 
faltered, quivering and snorting, then leaped forward 
racing neck and neck and, together, the two men looked 
behind them. The inky smudge on the skyline was 
blacker and more apparent than it had been, rolling 
swiftly up like a dense impenetrable wall, and for the 
first time Carew realised the gloom that, preoccupied, he 
had not noticed before. There seemed no possibility 
now of escaping the storm that earlier he had thought 
would pass too far to the south to touch them, and the 
prospects for the night should they over-ride the tiny 


THE DESERT HEALER 


185 


village in the darkness, were not cheering. But it was 
all in the day’s work and he was accustomed to the 

vagaries of the desert. And there was something in the 

thought of the approaching struggle with the elements 

that stirred his blood and made him almost welcome the 

physical discomfort that would inevitably ensue. It was 
something tangible he could contend with, something he 
could do, and doing, forget perhaps for a few hours the 
strange unrest that had laid so strong a hold on him. 

A vivid flash cl lightning followed by another deafen¬ 
ing roar of thunder stemmed the current of his thoughts 
and concentrated all his attention on his nervous mount. 
The pick of his stud, Suliman was the fastest horse 
Carew had ever ridden, and today, fleeter than usual by 
reason of his fear, it was difficult to restrain the headlong 
gallop that threatened to carry him far beyond his com¬ 
panion. 

Tightening his grip Carew leant forward soothing the 
terrified animal with voice and hand. The gloom was 
increasing, the gusts of hot wind more frequent and of 
longer duration, bringing with them now the stinging 
whip of driving sand. There was a distant muttering 
like the far off surge of waves beating against a rocky 
coast and suddenly the sun went out, hidden by the 
racing clouds that swept across the heavens, and with 
a tearing, whining scream the storm broke. 

Reeling under the terrific impact of the wind that stag¬ 
gered even the galloping horses, blinded with the swirl¬ 
ing sand, the two men crouched low in their saddles, 
wrestling with the flapping cloaks they strove to draw 
closer about them, struggling to keep near to each other, 


186 


THE DESERT HEALER 


their voices lost in the roar of the tempest. The sur¬ 
rounding country was obliterated and a thick darkness 
enveloped them. Between his knees Carew could feel 
the great bay trembling and starting but the strain was 
eased somewhat from his arms for the need of com¬ 
panionship had driven Suliman close beside the horse 
Hosein was riding. It was pure chance now where they 
would find themselves when the storm abated for the 
darkness and the whirling clouds of sand obscured every 
landmark. But it was not a matter with which Carew 
concerned himself. He had been through many sand¬ 
storms, fiercer and more prolonged than this one was 
likely to be. And here they were only catching the 
fringe of it. Further to the south Said, with his slow 
moving camels and the burden of women on his hands, 
was probably in a far worse case and would spend a 
more uncomfortable night than they would. With a 
shrug he spat out a mouthful of sand and dragged the 
heavy burnous higher about his face. The flying par¬ 
ticles stung like showers of spraying glass and the reins 
were rough and gritty between his wet fingers. From 
time to time he shook off the clinging accumulation but 
it gathered fast again filtering up his wide sleeves and 
penetrating through his thick clothing till his whole body 
was tingling and pricking. But in spite of the discomfort 
he was happier than he had been for weeks. The fight¬ 
ing instinct in him leaped to meet the fury of the storm. 
There was no time to think. He lived for the moment, 
every nerve strained to the utmost, his sombre eyes glow¬ 
ing with a curious look of pleasure, his knees thrust tight 
against his horse’s ribs, his powerful limbs braced to 


THE DESERT HEALER 


187 


resist the violent gusts that threatened to tear him from 
the saddle. The fierce howling of the wind, the savage 
pitilessness of the scene filled him with a strange ex¬ 
citement, making him exult in his own physical strength, 
the strength that had enabled him to pursue the wild and 
strenuous life he had made his own. It was nature, 
capricious and changeful as he had learned to know her— 
the nature he had turned to in his time of need, the 
nature he would go back to with undiminished pleasure 
and confidence. A hard mistress, cruel often, but allur¬ 
ing and compelling for her very waywardness. 

The storm had been raging for some time before the 
rain came, a heavy tropical downpour that, unexpected 
as it was short lived, drenched the men’s thick cloaks 
and caked the sand on the horse’s bodies. It passed 
quickly and with its going the gloom lessened slightly 
and the wind abated somewhat of its violence. But Carew 
placed no faith in the temporary lull. It would blow 
again later, or he was very much mistaken, and prob¬ 
ably harder than before. Meanwhile it was an oppor¬ 
tunity to push on, to increase the pace of the horses, 
whose mad gallop had gradually slackened while the 
storm was at its height. It was only nerves and the 
strong wind that had slowed them down. They were 
capable of a good deal yet in spite of the strain they had 
gone through. It was not such blind going now but it 
was still impossible to distinguish any of the outstanding 
features of the district and the village they were making 
for could be easily passed within a stone’s throw and 
yet missed. And night was falling rapidly. There was 
nothing for it but to carry on and trust to luck. 


188 


THE DESERT HEALER 


For an hour they rode steadily, huddled in their drip¬ 
ping cloaks, silent as they usually were when together. 
And the moment, to men even more communicatively 
inclined than Carew and his taciturn servant, was not 
conducive to conversation. The air was still impreg¬ 
nated with drifting sand that sifted through to mouth 
and nostrils in spite of the close drawn cloaks, and the 
wind made speech difficult. And furthermore, Carew 
was succumbing to an intense and growing feeling of 
drowsiness. He had not slept during the hour of the 
siesta at the oasis and he had been up the greater part 
of the previous night attending to one of Said’s followers 
who had taken an ugly toss from a stumbling camel. 
Suliman, his panic subsided, had resumed his usual 
smooth gallop and his easy movements were sleep in¬ 
ducing. More than once Carew found his sand-rimmed 
eyes closing. It was Hosein who noticed the first indi¬ 
cation that luck had favoured them and that they were 
on the right track for the village they had scarcely 
thought to find. A clump of withered palms clustered 
beside a broken well that had been dry for years. Carew 
recognised the mournful little spot with a half-somnolent 
feeling of detachment and nodded sleepily in response to 
his servant’s exclamation. And it was again Hosein who 
made the further discovery that drew from him a second 
exclamation that effectually banished his master’s drowsi¬ 
ness. 

Almost hidden by the palm trees and the crumbling 
masonry of the well, two riderless horses stood with de¬ 
jected, down-drooping heads, ridden to a standstill appar¬ 
ently for even Suliman’s angry squeal failed to attract 


THE DESERT HEALER 


189 


their attention. Motionless like creatures of bronze, their 
backs to the driving sand, their dangling bridles flapping 
in the wind, there was something singularly forlorn in 
their attitude. At sight of them Carew scowled in mo¬ 
mentary indecision. He had no wish to be hampered 
with the care of two spent horses, but it was not a night 
to pass even an animal in distress. With a word to 
Hosein, he swung Suliman towards the little dead oasis. 
The weary beasts took no notice of their approach and 
did not move as Carew drew rein beside them. A quick 
glance about him and he slid suddenly out of the saddle. 
Near by lay an Arab, face downwards on the ground, 
and a few steps away a powerfully built European sat 
with his back propped against the broken wall of the well 
nursing a heavy riding whip across his knees. His head 
was sunk between his shoulders, his face hidden by the 
wide brim of the helmet pulled low on his forehead. 
Rain-drenched and spattered with mud and sand that 
caked his once immaculate boots and clung closely to the 
rough surface of his tweed coat, he presented a sorry 
spectacle, but his plight had evidently not impaired his 
power of speech for there came from his lips a steady 
flow of uninterrupted blasphemy that sounded oddly in 
such a place and at such a time. 

Carew was no purist himself, but the unnecessary foul¬ 
ness of the words that assailed his ears roused in him 
a feeling of disgust and he turned abruptly to the pros¬ 
trate Arab who seemed in more immediate need of atten¬ 
tion. But as he touched him the man rolled from under 
his hands and stumbling to his feet, shrank away with 
upraised arm as though to ward off a blow. His eyes 


190 


THE DESERT HEALER 


were dazed but mingling with the pain in them there 
was a look of deep hatred, and his bruised and bleeding 
mouth told their own tale. The individual by the well 
was evidently a hard hitter as well as a hard swearer. 
To Carew, the sullen, twitching features were vaguely 
familiar and it was obvious, when after a few moments 
the Arab collected himself sufficiently to speak, that he 
himself was recognised. But he could not place him and 
the name that was reluctantly vouchsafed conveyed 
nothing—he knew dozens of Arabs with the same desig¬ 
nation. More he could not ask. Whatever were his 
feelings on the subject he could not interfere between 
master and servant. But his expression was not pleas¬ 
ant and he was conscious of a rising anger as he swung 
on his heel to go back to the well. He did not reach it. 
With slow clenching hands he stood where he had 
turned staring at the man who was leisurely coming 
towards him—the man he had been trying to avoid since 
the night, weeks ago, of the opera. The sodden helmet 
was pushed back revealing clearly, even in the dim light, 
the blotched, dissipated looking face that had stirred him 
to so strange and deadly a hatred. And now, in their 
close proximity, that strange hatred seemed to increase 
a thousandfold and it was all Carew could do to pre¬ 
serve semblance of passivity and conceal the boiling rage 
that filled him. It was like nothing he had ever experi¬ 
enced in his life before. As on that night in Algiers it 
was sweeping him with a force that was beyond all 
reason, all explanation. He could not explain it. He 
could not conquer it. He could only hope to retain the 
self-command that seemed perilously near to breaking 


THE DESERT HEALER 


191 


point, for again the same appalling desire to kill was 
pouring over him. Aghast at the horrible impulse that 
was almost more than he could resist he thrust his hands 
behind him to keep them from the weapon that lay hidden 
in the folds of his waistcloth. And completely oblivious 
of the storm of passion his presence had evoked, Gera- 
dine strode up to him with the swaggering gait and over¬ 
bearing demeanour that characterised him always, but 
which was especially notable in his dealings with any 
native, irrespective of rank. A native to him was a 
native, an inferior creature little better than the beasts of 
the field, to be dominated by fear and kept in his place. 
He stood now, his legs planted widely apart, slapping his 
boot with his riding whip, surveying Carew through in¬ 
solent half-closed eyes. 

“Look here—” he began, his tone a mixture of trucu¬ 
lence and arrogant condescension. “I’m in the devil of 
a mess. Came out from Biskra for a day or two’s camp¬ 
ing—missed my people in this infernal sandstorm—all 
the fault of that fool there. What’ll you take to get me 
out of this bally graveyard? My beasts are knocked up— 
yours look pretty fresh. Name your price, and for 
heaven’s sake get a move on, I—oh, damn I ” he broke 
off with a petulant shrug of annoyance as Carew con¬ 
tinued to stare at him with a purposely blank face that 
was neither helpful nor encouraging. For a few mo¬ 
ments, imagining himself to be not understood, he glared 
wrathfully at the supposed Arab, favouring him with a 
string of personal epithets that were neither complimen¬ 
tary nor parliamentary. And with contemptuous indif¬ 
ference Carew let him curse. If Geradine had accepted 


192 


THE DESERT HEALER 


him as an Arab, an Arab he would remain—but not an 
Arab to be either browbeaten or bribed. He was not in 
a mood to make things easier for the blustering bully 
who was working himself up into a state of childish rage. 
He could alter his tone if he wanted assistance. Nor 
at the moment was Carew very certain that his assistance 
would be forthcoming. Why should he go out of his 
way to help a man he hated! To be left in the predica¬ 
ment in which he was would be a salutary experience 
that might have a chastening effect on one who was obvi¬ 
ously unused to opposition or discomfort in any shape 
or form. A few privations would do him no harm. And 
if he died in the desert, which was not in the least likely, 
his death would probably be a source of relief rather 
than grief to his friends and relations. Quite suddenly 
Carew thought of the wife of the man who was facing 
him. She certainly, if all reports were true, would have 
no cause to lament a husband she evidently went in dread 
of. But what was that to him! A surge of anger went 
through him as his down-bent eyes swept upward to 
meet the insolent stare fixed on him. The foul-mouthed 
brute! God, how he hated him! Almost unconsciously 
he moved a step forward, and there was something men¬ 
acing in his expression that checked Geradine’s flow of 
language. 

With a shade more civility in his tongue he began to 
repeat his demand in halting French that was scarcely 
comprehensible. And with typical Arab aloofness Carew 
waited for him to come to the end of his stumbling expla¬ 
nations. But it was not on his account that he listened 
to him. It was the need of the wretched servant and 


THE DESERT HEALER 


193 


the two exhausted horses that swayed him and moved 
him finally to a reluctant decision. 

With a cold word of assent, and a curt gesture that 
sent the quick blood rushing to the other’s face, he turned 
haughtily as though from an inferior and walked back 
to the horses, leaving Geradine to stare after him splut¬ 
tering with rage, twisting and bending the pliable whip 
between his coarse hands, in two minds whether to fol¬ 
low him or not. Curse the dam’ nigger and his infernal 
cheek, looking at him as if he were dirt! A bit above 
himself, that chap. That’s what came of treating natives 
as the French did—equality, fraternity and the rest of it, 
by Gad! A rotten country! Who did the supercilious 
beggar think he was talking to, anyhow? A silly tourist 
to be impressed by his dam’ airs of superiority? He was 
hanged if he would stick impudence from any Arab. 
Coming the free son of the desert over him , was he? 
The blighter could go to blazes, and his horses too for 
that matter. He'd not truckle to any eternally con¬ 
demned son of a — But a freshening gust of wind that, 
sand laden, whipped against his cheek with unpleasant 
suggestiveness cut short his muttered imprecations and 
quashed his half-formed intention of revoking his de¬ 
mand for assistance and relying on himself to get out 
of an uncomfortable situation he was convinced was due 
entirely to the muddle-headedness of his servant. Curse 
the fool—there hadn’t been a job yet that he hadn’t 
mucked up! Recommended for his capabilities, by jove! 
A well-trained valet and an efficient dragoman, was he? 
He’d be a bit more trained and efficient when his present 
employer was done with him. There was only one way 


194 


THE DESERT HEALER 


of dealing with cattle of that kind, and Malec wouldn’t 
be the first nigger he’d licked into shape, not by a long 
way. But Malec could wait—he could deal with him 
later. 

With a snarl that boded little good for the unfortunate 
valet Geradine went with no show of haste to join the 
group of men and horses by the well-head. Carew was 
already mounted, wrestling with Suliman who was back¬ 
ing and rearing impatiently. He swung him round as 
the Viscount approached. . 

“You can ride my servant’s horse,” he said in French, 
“yours can hardly carry themselves. The men will have 
to walk.” 

With a grunt which was certainly not an expression 
of courtesy Geradine took the bridle Hosein offered him 
and climbed stiffly into the saddle. His drenched con¬ 
dition and his resentment at the authoritative tone ad¬ 
dressed to him did not tend to improve either his manners 
or his temper, and with characteristic pettiness he vented 
his ill-humour on the object nearest at hand. The horse 
that had been lent to him was plunging in furious protest 
at the raking spurs that were being used with unneces¬ 
sary violence and, losing command of himself, he slashed 
savagely at the little shapely head with his whip. Twice 
the heavy thong rose and fell, then a hand like steel 
closed on his wrist and it was wrenched from him. And, 
turning with an oath, he found himself confronted by 
a pair of blazing eyes in which he read not only rage 
but a totally unexpected hatred that sent an odd sensa¬ 
tion of cold rippling down his spine. He flinched in¬ 
voluntarily, dragging his horse aside, conscious for the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


195 


first time in his life of a feeling of fear. But the strange 
look that had startled him was gone in a flash and 
Carew’s face was impassive as he reined his own horse 
back. “Your pardon, monsieur , he is unused to a whip,” 
he said icily, and sent the offending weapon spinning into 
the mouth of the empty well where it fell beyond re¬ 
covery. Speechless with fury Geradine glared at him, 
and then, his French too limited to adequately express 
his feelings, let out a string of curses in his own lan¬ 
guage which would have given him more pleasure had 
he known them to be understood. But his hands were 
fully occupied with the enraged mount and Carew had 
already ridden on. It was blowing again steadily. Carew, 
sure now of his bearings, was heading more to the east 
and the swirling sand was driving straight at them. 
Muffled in his burnous, his face shielded somewhat by 
the close drawn haick, he felt it less than Geradine did. 
But he had no sympathy to waste on the huddled figure 
behind them with the exhausted horses. For them he 
was glad that the village lay only a bare three miles away. 
And even three miles, over rough uneven ground and 
against a strong wind, was a sufficiently tedious tramp 
for men unused to walking and hampered by two jaded 
beasts who required constant encouragement to induce 
them to move at all. Progress was necessarily slow and 
more than once Geradine, impatient of the snail’s pace 
at which they were proceeding, let out his fretting horse 
and dashed on ahead. But ignorant of the way and not 
relishing the prospect of losing sight of his companions 
in the growing darkness he was forced each time to curb 


196 


THE DESERT HEALER 


his impetuosity and wait for the others to come up with 
him. 

For a time he kept silence, but at last his annoyance 
found utterance. “See here/’ he exploded angrily, as 
Carew for the fifth time ranged alongside without seem¬ 
ing to notice the temporary separation, “this isn’t a bally 
funeral! For heaven’s sake push on a bit.” And as 
Carew turned to him with an indifferent “Plait-il?” he 
lost his temper completely. “Plus vite, you silly ass,” he 
bellowed. “Pas un coHbge, n’est-ce-pas —confound you!” 

For a moment Carew hesitated, his own temper rising 
dangerously. Then he shrugged and raising his hand 
pointed behind him. “The men are walking,” he said 
shortly, and wondered how long it would be before he 
was goaded into retaliation. To profess ignorance of his 
mother tongue was easy, to sit quietly under a storm of 
abuse and personal epithets was rather more difficult. 
But he had brought it on himself, he had allowed Gera- 
dine to think him an Arab and an Arab he would have 
to remain. To tardily admit his nationality was impos¬ 
sible, it would only make Geradine feel that he had been 
made a fool of and might probably lead to a quarrel that 
could easily end disastrously. As it was, his mere pres¬ 
ence was almost more than Carew could endure. He 
had kept a firm hold over himself so far but he knew 
that a very little more would shatter his self-control. He 
had voluntarily decided on a certain line of action and 
he would have to go on with it, if only for the sake of 
the wretched Arab. Left in the lurch, Geradine would 
undoubtedly wreck his wrath on the servant who had 
been already sufficiently manhandled. And again Carew 


THE DESERT HEALER 


197 


racked his brains to recollect where he had seen the man 
before. He rarely forgot faces and now, for want of 
something better to engage his attention, he set himself 
to discover why the dimly remembered features were 
familiar. It flashed across him at length. De Granier’s 
man—taken on with the villa, probably, poor devil. A 
fairly recent addition to the Frenchman’s household, 
Malec had made no very definite impression on the guest 
he had served but once. But having identified him 
Carew, casting back in his mind, remembered that de 
Granier had spoken of him as a curious character, re¬ 
sponding to kindness, but sullen when corrected and 
quick to take offence. 

The change from the easy-going Frenchman to service 
with a brute like Geradine must have been great, and 
Carew wondered suddenly what induced him to remain 
with a master he obviously hated. High wages—or a 
more sinister purpose?— He checked himself abruptly. 
He would be doing murder by proxy, and rather enjoy¬ 
ing it, if he let his thoughts race in this fashion. His 
own incomprehensible hatred was deep enough without 
allowing himself to dwell on another’s grievances. And 
for him there was not even the excuse of a grievance. 
For no reason or cause whatsoever he had hated Gera¬ 
dine at sight. With a shrug of perplexity he drew his 
cloak closer round him and shook the stinging sand from 
his bridle hand. 

The wind was gathering in force every minute and 
the light fading rapidly. If it failed entirely and they 
missed the little village in the darkness there was no 
other shelter available and Carew did not welcome the 


198 


THE DESERT HEALER 


thought of a night spent in the open with his present 
company. At this slow pace the way seemed more like 
thirty miles than three. But he could not increase it. 
Even kept to a walk, the horses had outpaced the men 
and they were some distance behind. Deaf to Gera- 
dine’s snarl of protest, Carew pulled up and waited until 
Hosein was alongside of him. And as the man’s hand 
touched his stirrup the storm broke again with redoubled 
fury and a tearing gust enveloped them in a cloud of 
blinding sand. For a few moments the horses became 
almost unmanageable, wheeling backs to the storm and 
crowding together in a plunging, kicking bunch. They 
were pulled apart at last and the little party struggled 
on in the teeth of the wind, choked with the driving par¬ 
ticles and straining their eyes through the gloom. 

And complete darkness had fallen before they stumbled 
upon the squalid little collection*bf mud huts that formed 
the village. Tenantless, it seemed at first, for no lights 
shone from the tiny barred windows that were blocked 
with rags to keep out the drifting sand. But Hosein, 
despatched in quest of the headman, returned shortly 
with an elderly Arab who, shrouded in a multitude of 
filthy coverings, salaamed obsequiously in answer to 
Carew’s shouted enquiry and led them to a hut a little dis¬ 
tance away. 

Only a hovel it was, but sheltering an amazingly large 
family—vague, shadowy figures, sexless in their close 
drawn draperies, who shrank from the vicinity of the 
strangers and slipped away stealthily into the night with 
heads bent low and shoulders hunched against the sweep¬ 
ing wind as the headman routed them out unceremoni- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


199 


ously to give place to the unexpected visitors. One room, 
the further portion screened for the use of the women 
of the family, and indescribably dirty and comfortless. 
It was nothing new to Carew, use had accustomed him 
to even greater squalor than this, but Geradine’s disgust 
was evident as he stared about him with curling lip, spit¬ 
ting the sand from his mouth and shaking it from his 
clothing. Wet and angry, and in no mood to be further 
inconvenienced, the sight of the horses vigorously pro¬ 
pelled into the hut through the narrow entrance moved 
him to noisy expostulation. With frequent and profana- 
tory lapses into English he managed to convey his total 
disapproval of the shelter provided for him, which he 
described as unfit even for pigs, and wrathfully 
announced his disinclination to share the limited accommo¬ 
dation with “those dam’ brutes”—horses and men-servants 
grouped impartially. His own tired beasts stood shiver¬ 
ing and listless but Suliman and Hosein’s horses were 
nervous of their surroundings and for a short space 
pandemonium reigned in the hut and his remonstrances 
passed unheeded. When he could hear himself speak 
again he reiterated his demands loudly. But Carew, who 
was stooping to unloosen Suliman’s girths, waved an 
indifferent hand towards the door and intimated sharply 
that if he preferred the sandstorm he was at liberty to 
remove himself, but that as far as he—Carew—was con¬ 
cerned men and horses remained where they were until the 
weather conditions improved. 

Unused to opposition, and too selfish to think of any¬ 
thing but his own comfort, the flat refusal was all that 
was needed to stir Geradine’s smouldering rage to a 


200 


THE DESERT HEALER 


white heat of fury. An ugly look swept across his lower¬ 
ing face and he started forward with a threatening gesture. 
And for a few seconds it seemed as if the open quarrel 
Carew had feared was now inevitable. Tired and on 

edge, goaded by the other’s insolence and overbearing 
manner, driven by his own hatred, nothing would have 
given him greater pleasure than to respond to the 

provocation offered him. Every instinct urged him to 

retaliate. He had done already all that could be humanly 
expected of him, and for two hours he had borne 
patiently with insults and abuse. He had done enough, 
and now his patience had reached its limit. And it was 
Geradine, not he, who was forcing the quarrel. Then 
why not give him what he asked for? By every means 
in his power he had tried to avoid him—and fate had 
thrust them together. Carew’s heart beat with a fierce 
exultant throb, and the atmosphere of the little room 
seemed suddenly to become electric—alive with naked 
passions—as the two men stared into each other’s eyes. 
Behind them the Arabs, sensitive of the tension, were 
watching intently, and Hosein was edging nearer to his 
master, his hand stealing to the knife in his belt. Then 
with a tremendous effort Carew thrust from him the 
temptation to which he had almost succumbed and swing¬ 
ing on his heel without a word turned back to his horse. 
And checked, despite himself, by a silence he did not 
understand, Geradine made no further protest, but fell 
back with an inarticulate growl and crossing the room, 
dropped down heavily on the cleanest spot he could find, 
as far removed from the others as possible. 

Lighting a cigar with difficulty, for his matches were 


THE DESERT HEALER 


201 


wet, he smoked sulkily until the horses were unsaddled. 
Then fumbling in the pocket of his sodden coat he pro¬ 
duced a good-sized flask and, gulping down the remaining 
contents, shouted to the sullen-faced Arab—who was 
leaning moodily against the wall beside the steaming 
horses—to bring him more brandy. Apathetically, the 
man unstrapped the leathern holster from his master’s 
saddle. And, following him, Carew saw the savage kick 
aimed at him as Geradine snatched the second flask from 
his outstretched hand. To the multifarious odours that 
filled the little room was added the reek of raw spirit for 
the Viscount, whose hand was shaking, spilled as much 
as he drank of the undiluted cognac with which he sought 
to quench an unquenchable thirst. Even so, added to 
what he had previously taken, the allowance was a gen¬ 
erous one. But, beyond deepening the colour in his 
already congested face and further dissatisfying him with 
his environment, it seemed to make no difference to him 
for he cursed as fluently and as intelligibly as before as 
he shivered closer into the corner where he was sitting 
in a vain attempt to avoid the sweeping draughts that 
whistled through innumerable cracks in the broken, mud 
walls of the hut. 

With growing hatred and disgust Carew listened to 
the uninterrupted flow of filthy language, wishing pas¬ 
sionately that Geradine’s hand had been steadier. Dead 
drunk he would at least have been silent. Half tipsy 
and vituperative he was intolerable. Was this what the 
girl listened to day after day and night after night— 
Carew flung his wet cloak back with an angry jerk, 
scowling at the sudden thought. It was no business of 


202 


THE DESERT HEALER 


his, no business of his, he whispered doggedly as he 
searched for a cigarette. No business of his—but 
remembrance, stimulated, was easier than forgetfulness 
and for long he stared sombrely at the wreathing clouds 
of faint blue smoke that, curling upward in fantastic 
spirals, seemed to frame the exquisite oval of a pale, pure 
face. When at last, by sheer strength of will, he forced 
his mind back to the immediate present, Geradine’s 
grumbling had ceased and he seemed to be asleep. The 
men, too, were dozing, though HPsein’s hand moved 
mechanically each time the restless Suliman stamped. 
The room was perceptibly darker, and looking for the 
cause, Carew saw that one of the two little earthenware 
lamps left by the routed family had burnt out and the 
other was flickering feebly. He wondered if he also had 
been asleep. And listening for the gusts of wind that 
before had shaken the crumbling building he realised 
that the storm had passed. The atmosphere was stifling, 
and going to the door he wrenched it open and went out 
into the night. There the change was almost magical. 
Swept clean, the heavens were blazing with stars and the 
desert lay calm and still in the soft, clear light of a 
rising moon whose slanting beams shone silver on the 
sand. A peace and silence that was gripping. To Carew, 
still seething with the hatred that a little while since had 
almost mastered him, the marvellous beauty of the night 
was like the touch of a healing hand and, watching it, 
for a time he forgot even Geradine. 

Behind him the tiny collection of huts straggled dark 
and mysterious in the deep shadow of a great bare rock 
that, stark and solitary, rose out of the level plain at 


THE DESERT HEALER 


203 


some distance from the chain of mountains to which it 
properly belonged. But he did not look at the sleeping 
village. It was the desert that held him—the desert 
that with its silent voice was whispering, enticing, as 
so often it had whispered and enticed before, drawing 
him with the glamour of its hidden secrets. Caressingly 
his eyes swept the moonlit plain. He was one with it 
now, a nomad for all time. More than the stately house 
in England, more than the miniature palace in Algiers, it 
was his home. For ten years he had lived in it. For 
ten years, seeking to cure his own hurt, he had tried 
to bring relief to others, fighting misery and disease, 
appalled by the magnitude of his task and seeming to have 
accomplished so little. But even the little was worth 
while. By even the little he was repaid. His toil had not 
been altogether in vain. By God’s grace he had been 
enabled to do something, and by God’s grace he would 
do still more. In the deep stillness of the eastern night 
the sense of the Divine Presence was very near and, 
in all humbleness, Carew prayed from his heart for 
strength to continue the work that had become his life. 

As he arose from his knees Hosein came to him, uneasy 
at his absence and the unwilling bearer of a message. 

“The English lord is hungry,” he announced briefly, 
with patent scorn in his voice that Carew affected not to 
hear. The situation was already sufficiently difficult 
without having to reprove his servant for a lapse that 
was due entirely to Geradine’s own behaviour. 

With a last glance at the shining stars he went 
reluctantly back to the hut. 

Half hidden in a haze of cigar smoke and aggressively 


204 


THE DESERT HEALER 


wide awake Geradine hailed his appearance with no 
more civility than before. 

“Clear out those cursed beasts,” he shouted trucu¬ 
lently. “I can’t sleep in a damned stable! And get me 
something to eat. Something—to—eat. Quelque chose a 
manger, comprenez ?—you blasted fool!” he added, pan¬ 
tomiming vigorously. The blood rolled in a dark wave 
to Carew’s face but determined to keep his temper he 
swallowed the retort that sprang to his lips and gave 
the required orders with apparent unconcern. But he 
smiled inwardly as he watched the men lead the horses 
away. It was very doubtful whether food of any kind 
would be procurable at this time of night, and even 
if Hosein’s endeavours met with success it was not likely 
that Geradine would appreciate the rough fare of the 
necessitous little village. Nor, he was convinced, would 
the handful of crushed dates he carried in his waistcloth 
prove any more acceptable. 

And when at length Hosein returned with a bowl of 
curdled camel’s milk he was not surprised that the Vis¬ 
count, after one glance of mingled dismay and repug¬ 
nance, rejected both it and the unsavoury looking little 
mass of sand covered fruit with a disgusted “Lord, what 
beastly muck!” and retired into his corner with his hunger 
unsatisfied to curse himself to sleep. He was still sleeping 
heavily when Carew woke with the dawn and went out 
to find Hosein and the horses and make arrangements for 
Geradine’s return to Biskra. It was not his intention 
that they should ride together. His sole desire was to 
get away as quickly as possible from the vicinity of the 
man he hated more vehemently than ever. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


205 

Last night he had controlled himself only by a super¬ 
human effort. This morning he felt he could no longer 
trust himself. To escape the leave taking that was other¬ 
wise unavoidable he did not go back to the hut when, an 
hour later, he was ready for the road and had concluded 
his interview with Malec and the headman of the village. 

But as his foot was in the stirrup Geradine appeared, 
yawning sleepily, and swinging his arms to get the stiff¬ 
ness out of them. Having wakened for once without his 
customary morning headache he was in a better temper 
than usual. Apparently oblivious of his incivility of the 
previous evening he lounged forward with an air of con¬ 
descending geniality, prepared evidently to make himself 
agreeable. His shouted greeting terminated in a loud 
laugh as he glanced at Carew, clean shaven and immacu¬ 
late as Hosein always contrived he should be, and then 
at his own soiled clothing. 

“You look smart enough, by Gad,” he said, fingering 
his rough chin tenderly, “where the devil do you find 
water and a razor in this filthy little hole? You’re off 
early—what’s your hurry? Oh, damn it, I forgot you can’t 
speak English. Well, never mind, you’re a sportsman 
whatever you are. I’d have been in the soup last night 
if you hadn’t come along. Many thanks—dash it, I mean 
tres oblige, mille remerciments —and all the rest of it, 
don’t you know.” And with another laugh he thrust out 
his hand. 

But incited by the gentle pressure of his rider’s heel 
Suliman plunged wildly and shot away leaving Geradine 
with his arm still outstretched, half annoyed and half 
amused at Carew’s abrupt departure. 


206 


THE DESERT HEALER 


Proud as Lucifer, like every other potty little chief he 
had ever met—but the beggar could ride, he reflected as 
he stood looking after the galloping horsemen, and the 
man he had with him was worth a dozen of the fool he 
was landed with. And yawning again he turned back to 
the hut and roared for the fool in question. 


CHAPTER VIII 


In her bedroom at the Villa des Ombres Marny Gera- 
dine was standing before the open window staring out 
into the darkness. She stood very still, her colourless 
face set like a mask of marble, her hands clasped tightly 
behind her. Only the tempestuous rise and fall of her 
delicately rounded bosom betrayed the inward tumult 
that was raging within her. Five minutes ago she had 
dismissed a white faced and pleading Ann and now, alone, 
she was facing a decision that took all her courage to 
sustain. 

It was the night of the Governor’s annual ball. By 
now she should have been dressed. But the wonderful 
Paris creation that Geradine had insisted on ordering 
specially for the occasion still lay in shimmering folds 
on the chaise longue and Marny had not changed from 
the simple teagown in which she had dined. 

She was not going to the ball. She was not going 
to submit again to the open shame and humiliation that 
had been her portion throughout her married life but 
which during the last few weeks had reached a culmi¬ 
nating point of horror. Her husband’s gross intemperance, 
his notorious infidelities, his callous disregard for any¬ 
thing beyond his own pleasure, had driven her at last 
to rebellion. She had reached the end of her endurance. 
She knew that at home she must continue to suffer the 
brutal treatment he meted out to her but she had resolved 
never to appear in public with him again. How would 
207 


208 


THE DESERT HEALER 


he receive her decision? How would she brave his anger? 
Why did she think only of his strength, of the hectoring 
bullying voice she dreaded, of the merciless hands that 
made her shrink in physical fear that was an agony? 
Intolerant of the least opposition to his lightest wish 
what would he do to her! A shudder of pure terror ran 
through her. If he would only come—as she knew he 
would come to demand the reason of her lateness. Wait¬ 
ing was torture. 

And yet when the door burst open and banged violently 
to again and she heard his heavy step oehind her the 
dread she had felt before was as nothing to the paralysing 
fear that now rushed over her robbing her of all power 
of movement. 

She could have shrieked when his hands closed with 
crushing force on her shoulders and he swung her round 
to face him. But she managed to control herself and 
meet his furious stare courageously. He was in the quar¬ 
relsome stage of semi-intoxication that of late had been 
his usual state, drunk enough to be cruel and vindictive, 
sober enough to be dangerous. 

“Not dressed yet! What the hell have you been doing 
all this time? You’re damnably late!” 

She was used to being sworn at, she had come to feel 
that nothing he could say could hurt her any more, and 
tonight it did not seem to matter very much what he said. 

She forced herself to answer him. 

“I’m not going to the ball, Clyde.” 

He glared at her in speechless anger, his hands slipping 
from her shoulders, his dark red face flushing deeper, the 
veins on his forehead standing out like whipcord. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


209 


“The devil you’re not! And why, might I ask?” he bel¬ 
lowed furiously. Panic driven, the temptation to evade 
the issue she had raised, the cowardly impulse to plead 
illness to allay his wrath was almost more than she 
could suppress. But she fought back the words that 
rushed to her lips and turned away with a little hopeless 
gesture. 

“You know why,” she said in a low voice. 

“I’m damned if I do!” 

She turned to him swiftly. 

“You know, Clyde,” she said steadily, “you know per¬ 
fectly well why I dread going out with you. You’ve 
known ever since we were married.” 

“I know you’re a little fool,” he retorted angrily. “Look 
here, Marny, I’ve had enough of this nonsense. You’ll go 
to this dam’ ball whether you like it or not, just as you 
will go anywhere and everywhere I choose you shall go. 
I’ll give you ten minutes to be ready—not a second more. 
And you can keep your infernal objections to yourself 
in future. I’m not going to be preached at by anybody, 
much less by you. Look sharp and don’t keep me wait¬ 
ing any longer. Ten minutes—that’s your limit,” he 
shouted and moved as if to leave the room. She shivered, 
her pale face whiter than before, but her determination 
was stronger than her fear. 

“It’s no use, Clyde. I’m not going,” she said slowly. 
And for the first time he heard a ring of obstinacy in 
her voice. He swung back towards her, staring at her 
for a moment incredulously, rocking slightly on his feet, 
his big hands clenching as he worked himself up to a 
pitch of passionate rage. 


210 


THE DESERT HEALER 


“You mean that?” he said thickly. Her dry lips almost 
refused their office. 

“Yes,” she whispered faintly. 

“You deliberately disobey me?” She wrung her hands 
in sudden agony. “I’ve always obeyed you, always done 
what you wished—but this—oh, I can’t. I can’t!” 

He towered over her, his bloodshot eyes menacing. 
“You can’t?” he sneered. “I rather think you both can 
and will. There’s only one person in this house who says 
‘can’t’—and that’s me. You’ll do what you’re told, now 
and always. Put on that dress—and God help you if you 
keep me waiting!” 

She lifted a quivering face of desperate appeal. 

“Clyde—I— Clyde!” Her voice broke in a cry of ter¬ 
rible anguish as he struck her, the whole weight of his 
powerful body behind the smashing blow that sent her 
reeling across the room to fall with a sickening crash on 
the parquet floor. 

He looked down at her callously, his crimson face 
twitching, his big frame shaking with passion. Then he 
walked slowly across the room and sat down heavily on 
the bed, his smouldering eyes still fixed with a look of 
cruel satisfaction on the prostrate little figure that lay so 
still. He had no compunction for what he had done. 
She had come to the wrong shop if she thought she was 
going to roughride him with any of her silly notions. He 
would jolly well make it clear to her tonight that he would 
brook no disobedience, no questioning of his habits, no 
thwarting of his wishes. Damned little puritan—who 
shrank from his embraces as if she were a ravished nun 
instead of a normal athletic young woman with healthy 


THE DESERT HEALER 


211 


red blood in her veins. He wanted a mate in his arms 
not a beautiful piece of statuary whose reserve and cold¬ 
ness infuriated him. She was his wife—and dam’ lucky 
to be so. She might have been on the streets if it hadn’t 
been for him. If she wasn’t satisfied—well, he’d a griev¬ 
ance himself if it came to that. They’d been married five 
years, why the devil hadn’t she given him the heir he 
wanted? And lashing himself to greater fury he waited, 
making no effort to aid her until she regained conscious¬ 
ness. She stirred at last, moaning with pain, her slender 
body convulsed with terrible shuddering. Dragging her¬ 
self to her feet she stood swaying giddily, her hands 
pressed on her throbbing temple, her heavy eyes looking 
listlessly about her till they rested at length on Geradine’s 
massive figure and into them there flashed suddenly the 
horror of dawning remembrance. With a little choking 
sound she turned and staggering a few steps fell into 
a chair before the dressing table, burying her head in her 
arms amongst the costly appointments that littered its 
shining surface, her shoulders shaking with hard tearless 
sobs. 

And as Geradine had watched her insensible so did he 
watch her now, pitiless and unmoved. He had no use 
for half measures. If she had to be taught a lesson 
it should be at least a thorough one. He lurched to his 
feet and strode across the room, halting beside her with 
his arms folded across his broad chest, his foot beating 
with angry impatience against the floor. “How much 
longer are you going to keep me waiting?” 

The harsh words jarred like a stab of actual pain and 
sick and faint she raised her eyes to his. One look con- 


212 


THE DESERT HEALER 


vinced her of his determination. He meant it, oh, very 
well she knew he meant it! Too dazed, too broken to 
oppose him further she knew that she would have to 
obey; that, cost her what it might, she would have to 
dress and go with him. With a stifled gasp of pain she 
struggled to her feet, her head reeling, and caught at the 
table for support, pushing the heavy hair off her fore¬ 
head and wincing as her fingers touched her injured 
temple. 

“If you will please go I will ring for my maid,” she 
muttered indistinctly, choking back the hysterical sobs 
that rose in her throat. “I’ll go when it suits me, and 
you’ll ring for no maid,” he said sharply. “You’ll dress 
a dam’ sight quicker with me in the room. It won’t be 
the first time I’ve valeted you, and it won’t be the last 
I’m willing to bet. And I’m hanged if I’ll have that grim 
faced old harridan you call your maid poking her nose 
in where she isn’t wanted. I’m about fed up with her as 
it is. She’s not the kind of woman I want about you, 
anyhow. She’ll have to go, and the sooner the better. 
You can pay her her wages tomorrow and tell her to clear 
out by the first available boat.” 

“Clyde!” The sharp cry was wrung from her. And 
forgetting her pain, her fear, everything but the heartless 
ultimatum he had launched at her she sprang towards 
him, clutching at him with trembling hands, her face 
working convulsively, pleading as she would not have 
stooped to plead for herself. 

“Clyde, Clyde, you don’t mean it, you can’t mean it! 
You can’t send her away, you couldn’t be so cruel. She’s 
old, I’m all she’s got, it would kill her to leave me. And 


THE DESERT HEALER 


213 


you promised—you promised me faithfully I might keep 
her. It will break her heart. Oh, Clyde, be generous. 
Do what I ask, just this once. If you let me keep her 
I’ll never oppose you again. I’ll do anything you wish— 
I’ll be anything you wish—” 

A sneering look of triumph crossed his face as he flung 
her from him. “You’ll do as I wish without any bargains, 
my lady,” he said significantly. “You’ve had your 
orders and there’s an end of the matter. The thing’s 
finished. And might I remind you that the horses have 
already been waiting an hour?” 

That was apparently all that mattered to him. Of less 
value at the moment than the pedigreed animals he prided, 
distress of mind, the pain and weariness of her bruised 
and aching body was beyond his consideration. A feel¬ 
ing of numbness came over her, a kind of frozen apathy 
that seemed to turn her into a mere automaton, and with¬ 
out a word she turned slowly to do his bidding. She had 
a curious impression that the white-faced weary-looking 
woman reflected in her mirror was some other than her¬ 
self, that, divorced from her own body, she was watch¬ 
ing the suffering of a total stranger. And as she dressed 
with mechanical haste only one thing was clear and 
instant with her—the consciousness of menacing eyes 
that followed her every movement until their burning 
stare became a veritable torment. But, throughout the 
process of her toilet he spoke only once, a characteristic 
remark: “Put a bit o’ colour on your face. You’re as 
white as a ghost.” 

“I haven’t any,” she faltered. 

“Haven’t—any? Good God!” he ejaculated and 


214 


THE DESERT HEALER 


relapsed into silence. But when she was dressed he came 
to her, and as his critical gaze travelled slowly over her 
slim figure the heavy scowl smoothed from his face and 
the old look of proprietory admiration crept back into his 
eyes. With the quick change of mood that was so 
marked in him he caught her in his arms with sudden 
passion. “Damn it all, Marny, what the devil do you 
want to make me lose my temper for?” he grumbled 
petulantly. “Give me a kiss, and don’t be such a little 
fool again.” 

Sick with loathing but helpless against his strength 
perforce she lifted her face to his. But unsatisfied he 
laughed with angry contempt. “Do you call that a kiss? 
Gad, you’ve a lot to learn!” he said scornfully, and 
crushed his mouth once more against her trembling lips. 
Then he let her go and, swelling with the sense of his 
own magnanimity, hurried her with heavy jocularity to 
the waiting carriage, there to soothe his ruffled feelings 
with a cigar which he smoked in silence during the short 
drive into Algiers. 

And huddled in her own corner of the roomy victoria 
Marny leaned back and rested her aching head against 
the cushions, staring before her with fixed unseeing eyes. 

During the five years that had been a physical as well 
as mental martyrdom she had suffered much at her 
husband’s hands. In the furious rages to which he was 
liable he had often hurt her cruelly but until tonight he 
had never deliberately struck her. But it was not of his 
brutality towards herself that Geradine’s wife was think¬ 
ing now as the carriage rolled swiftly along the deserted 
road. Her mind was filled with only one thought. Ann! 


THE DESERT . HEALER 


215 


How to tell her. How to break to the faithful old woman 
the fact that her lifelong service must end so abruptly, 
so callously? Where would she go, what would she do? 
To face the world again at seventy! Marny’s hands 
clenched in sudden anguish. Would she even be allowed 
to help her if necessity arose? Herself she was penniless, 
Castle Fergus had passed to Geradine and she was 
dependent on him even for the very sous she flung to the 
Arab beggars who clustered round her carriage. How, 
after tonight, could she ever appeal to him again. And 
yet, for Ann’s sake, she knew that she would have to 
make that appeal and court not only his almost certain 
refusal but the consequent anger that would assuredly 
be directed against herself. Why was she such a craven, 
why did the thought of her own miserable suffering obtrude 
when it was Ann, and only Ann, who mattered! 

Her husband’s impatient voice roused her to the fact 
that the carriage was at a standstill. Tonight, the gala 
night of the year, the Governor’s palace was filled to 
overflowing, a scene of vivid animation, gorgeous with 
oriental splendour, rioting with colour and echoing with a 
confusion of voices laughing and chattering in a score 
of different languages. The spacious rooms, flaming with 
lights and decorated with a wealth of scented flowers, 
were crowded—a motley gathering of nearly every race 
and creed moving in a never ceasing stream to the 
strains of the crashing military band. 

The gaudy costumes of the desert sheiks, the crimson 
burnouses of the grave-faced Caids, the striking and pic¬ 
turesque uniforms of Spahis and Zouaves made distinctive 
notes in the brilliant assembly that eclipsed even the 


216 


THE DESERT HEALER 


radiant hues of the marvellous toilettes of the French 
and English ladies. 

To Marny, dazzled by the light and deafened by the 
uproar, it seemed as if she had stepped suddenly into 
pandemonium. For once she was even glad of the near¬ 
ness of her husband whose burly figure was an effectual 
barrier against the press that thronged them as they 
moved slowly towards the low dais where the Governor, 
heated and weary with handshaking but beaming with 
happiness and hospitality, stood amongst a group of 
highly placed officials and European consuls. Near him 
‘General Sanois, less obviously enjoying himself, was deep 
in conversation with a tall and venerable-looking Caid. 
And at the foot of the dais was clustered a little group 
of sheiks from the far south, gazing about them with 
calm aloofness but keenly alive to every detail and 
circumstance of the evening’s entertainment. 

There were many curious glances that followed and 
many eager tongues that discussed the tardy appearance 
of the two important English guests as they made 
their slow passage across the room, and the Governor 
whose twinkling eyes were roving constantly in quest of 
new faces was quick to notice their arrival. Punctilious 
to a nicety he stepped forward to greet them with a 
deference that was due to Geradine’s rank and to the 
beauty of his wife. But as she responded to his gallant 
and happy little speech of welcome Marny’s voice fal¬ 
tered slightly and her pale face flushed with a wave of 
beautiful colour, for near her in the little group of desert 
men beside the dais she saw Carew standing clad like 
them in native robes but distinguished by the dark blue 


THE DESERT HEALER 


217 


burnous he affected. And Geradine, whose French was 
as limited as was the Governor’s English, while replying 
somewhat laboriously to his host’s courtesies had also 
noticed the tall Arab-clad figure and grasped eagerly at 
the chance of cutting short a conversation that bored 
him infinitely. 

“I’m hanged if that isn’t my friend of the sandstorm,” 
he exclaimed, and waved pointedly at Carew who, unwill¬ 
ing to add to the public attention already aroused, 
came forward reluctantly and submitted to a boisterous 
greeting. With a loud laugh Geradine turned again to 
the visibly astonished Governor. “Seems a decent sort of 
chap,” he said condescendingly. “Pulled me out of no 
end of a hole in the desert a week or two ago. Introduce 
him to my wife, will you? She’s interested in the natives. 
And, Marny,” he added, his own slight interest already 
evaporating, “you speak the lingo better than I do, say 
something civil to the fellow—only for heaven’s sake 
remember he’s a Mohammedan and don’t put your foot 
into it and enquire for his wife and family. And when 
you’re tired of him His Excellency will find you partners 
if you want to dance. I’m off to get a drink.” And with 
a careless nod he swung on his heel in search of the 
nearest buffet. 

His graceless incivility was no more than much that 
Marny had been called upon frequently to endure but 
tonight his boorishness was almost more than she could 
bear. His mistake with regard to Carew though regret¬ 
table was a perfectly natural one, but his cavalier treat¬ 
ment of the courteous little Frenchman was unpardon¬ 
able. Scarlet with shame and confusion she could find 


218 


THE DESERT HEALER 


no words to break the awkward silence that ensued. But 
the Governor, whose saving sense of humour was for¬ 
tunately greater than his feeling of mortification, plunged 
nobly into the breach and made the best of the embar¬ 
rassing situation in which he found himself. “Madame,” 
he stammered, with twitching lips, “I—I have the honour 
to present to you Monsieur Carew—a compatriot of your 
own,” and fled to hide his secret enjoyment of a 
contretemps he found exquisitely amusing. Carew the 
woman hater—and he had just introduced him to the 
most beautiful woman in Algiers. Bon Dieu , quelle come- 
diel But to Marny it was no comedy. Miserable and 
tongue-tied, giddy with pain, she tried vainly to collect 
herself, to formulate some adequate excuse that should 
cover her husband’s blunder and lessen the resentment 
she was sure the man beside her must feel at being pub¬ 
licly forced into an action that was totally against his 
universally known principles. Would he blame her for 
being the cause, though the unwitting cause, of his present 
predicament? Would he too leave her in this crowded 
room, the cynosure of curious eyes, to find her way alone 
to the group of English dowagers with whom she had the 
slightest acquaintance? Super-sensitive and innately shy 
the very thought of it made her shrink. The few seconds 
that had passed since the Governor’s hurried departure 
seemed magnified into hours. Angry at her own gaucherie 
she had nerved herself to make some halting apology 
when the opening bars of a waltz rising above the 
din of conversation occasioned a general rush for 
partners and in the comparative quiet that followed she 
heard the deep soft voice that had become so dear to her 


THE DESERT HEALER 


219 


speaking with the slow hesitancy she had noticed before. 

“You are looking very tired, Lady Geradine. Shall I 
take you out of this babel?” 

And almost before she realised it she found herself 
walking beside him down the length of the long room, 
piloted skilfully between the dancing couples who already 
filled the floor. Once or twice he paused to exchange a 
nod and a passing word with a uniformed officer or an 
isolated group of Arabs, but she hardly noticed these 
slight interruptions and at length they reached the rapidly 
emptying entrance hall. Crossing it he turned down a 
short corridor that opened into a little winter garden 
where chairs were placed amongst palms and banks of 
tropical plants. At the moment the place was deserted. 
And quiet and dimly lit to Marny it seemed a haven of 
refuge after the glare and noise of,the crowded reception 
rooms. With a feeling of relief she followed him to a 
fern-screened couch at the further end of the conserva¬ 
tory and sank into the low seat, stripping the long gloves 
from her hands and closing her eyes wearily. And look¬ 
ing down at her Carew saw her face convulsed with a 
sudden spasm of pain. 

He was still inwardly raging at the incident of a few 
minutes ago, still seething with the strange hatred that 
had laid so strong a hold upon him—hatred that, aggra- 
va:ed by Geradine’s discourteous and overbearing manner, 
seemed tonight to have reached its culminant pitch. 
It was with difficulty that he had controlled himself 
just now in the ballroom. But something had restrained 
him, something—more impellent even than his desire 
to avoid a collision that could only have ended 


220 


THE DESERT HEALER 


in a public fracas—that had risen up within him at the 
sight of the girl’s strained face. And as he looked at her 
now with his black brows drawn together in a heavy 
scowl he was still wondering at the impulse that had 
come to him to shield her, still trying vainly to under¬ 
stand his own motive in bringing her here. What had 
prompted him? 

Was it anger or pleasure or only pity he felt as he 
stared again at the little drooping figure? A curious 
expression crept into his sombre eyes. What a child she 
looked—what a weary white-faced child! 

“You ought to be at home and in bed,” he said, almost 
roughly. “Can I get you anything—champagne or a 
cup of coffee?” 

She glanced up with a start. 

“No, please, it’s nothing. Only a headache,” she stam¬ 
mered. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me to¬ 
night,” she added with a shaky laugh. “I’m not given to 
headaches. I’m as strong as a horse, really.” But as 
she uttered her valiant little boast her voice broke and 
she looked away, twisting her gloves nervously between 
her hands. He could see that she was struggling with 
herself but he made no attempt to forestall the explana¬ 
tion he guessed was coming and waited, still standing, for 
her to speak. She turned to him at last, her troubled 
gaze not reaching his face but lingering on the pc- 
turesque details of his Arab dress. 

“Sir Gervas—I’m sorry—that stupid blunder—” she 
faltered. Then suddenly her eyes met his and words 
came tumbling out in breathless haste. “—but you were 
with him that night in the desert, you let him think you 


THE DESERT HEALER 


221 


were an Arab. He couldn’t possibly know you were Eng¬ 
lish, that you could understand—” 

“Do you think I mind being taken for an Arab?” he 
interrupted, pulling his heavy cloak closer round him and 
sitting down beside her. “It was a perfectly natural mis¬ 
take and not worth a moment’s consideration, certainly 
not worth the value of a pair of gloves,” he added with 
a faint smile. And reaching out he drew them delib¬ 
erately from between her twitching fingers. His voice 
was extraordinarily gentle but there was in it an under¬ 
lying note of finality that made further apology impos¬ 
sible, and with a little sigh she relapsed into silence. 

For a time she watched him smoothing the creases 
from the crumpled gloves, wondering at his unexpected 
presence. 

“I didn’t think you would be here tonight,” she said 
at length. “You don’t really like—this sort of thing, do 
you?” she added, with a vague movement of her hand 
towards the distant ballroom. 

“Loathe it,” he answered promptly, moving slightly to 
face her and settling his long limbs more comfortably 
into the’ corner of the sofa. “But I make a point of x 
coming to this particular function if I happen to be in 
Algiers. I meet old friends.” 

“Desert friends?” 

He nodded assent to the eager question. 

“Is that why you wear Arab dress?” 

“Partly,” he shrugged, “they would hardly know me in 
European clothes. But principally because I prefer it.” 

“As you prefer to speak Arabic or French, rather than 
English?” she hazarded. 


222 


THE DESERT HEALER 


“How do you know?” 

She flushed under his stare and looked away with an 
odd little smile. 

“When you talk you stop sometimes as if you were 
searching for a word,” she said, rather hesitatingly, “and 
the other day, in the Bouzarea woods, half the time you 
were speaking in French.” 

“I have scarcely spoken English for twelve years,” he 
said shortly. Then as if to cover the slight piece of per¬ 
sonal information he had let slip he added: 

“There is no longer any need for you to restrict your 
rides, Lady Geradine. The woods are safe enough now.” 

She turned to him swiftly. “What do you mean?” she 
said with sudden breathlessness. And as she listened to 
his bald unvarnished account of the end of Abdul el Dhib 
the colour that had risen to her face died out of it leav¬ 
ing her white to the lips. She was shivering when he 
finished, her hands clenching and unclenching in her lap. 
“And it was because of me—because of what you did 
for me that night,” she burst out passionately. “Oh, I 
never thought, I never guessed the risk you were taking! 
And you knew all the time! It was he you meant when 
you warned me not to ride alone. It was he you thought 
was coming that morning in the woods when Tanner 
brought the horses, and that very night—oh, if he had 
killed you, it would have been my fault! And I— 
I—” She pulled herself up sharply, aghast at the sound 
of her own voice, at the confession that had been almost 
wrung from her. A wave of burning colour suffused her 
face and tingling with shame she averted it hastily, veil¬ 
ing her eyes with the thick dark lashes that swept down- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


223 


ward to her cheek—but not before he had seen the look 
that flashed into them, a look that sent the blood racing 
madly through his veins and made his heart leap with 
sudden violence. For a moment he sat rigid, stunned 
with self-realisation, the hands that were clasped around 
his knee tightening slowly until the knuckles shone white 
through the tanned skin. Then with a tremendous effort 
he mastered himself. 

“Nobody’s fault but my own, I’m afraid,” he said 
with forced lightness. “I knew the man I was dealing 
with. I have good friends in Algiers who gave me warn¬ 
ings in plenty and because I chose to ignore them what 
happened was due to my carelessness.” 

“It still doesn’t lessen my obligation,” she said in a 
stifled voice. But his quiet tone, his imperturbable man¬ 
ner was fast restoring her own self-possession. Indif¬ 
ferent himself, why should he guess the true cause of 
her agitation? Perhaps what had seemed so blatant to 
her had escaped him, and he had seen in her outburst 
only a natural womanly distress for the danger of a man 
who had risked his life on her behalf. And the formal 
courtesy of his next words further reassured her. 
“There was never any obligation,” he said quietly. “I 
merely did what anybody else would have done under 
the circumstances.” And abruptly he changed the con¬ 
versation to the recent race meeting at Biskra. Con¬ 
vinced that he had not divined her secret, her feeling of 
self-consciousness and restraint wore gradually away 
and only the joy of his companionship remained. She 
would get from it what she could, she would live for the 
moment and its transient happiness and leave to the fu- 


224 


THE DESERT HEALER 


ture the misery and loneliness that was going to be so 
much harder to bear than it had ever been. Enough that 
she was with him and that she loved him, loved him as 
she had never thought it possible to love. A love that 
should be her secret strength in the bitter years to come. 

Silence fell between them again. And content to wait 
until he should choose to speak she sat very still beside 
him, watching him covertly as he leant back with his 
hands clasped behind his head, his half-shut eyes staring 
straight before him as if he saw more than the ferns 
and fairy lights at which he was looking. Tonight his 
face seemed graver, sterner than she had ever seen it. 
A tragic face it appeared to her, a face that bore the 
deep-cut marks of sorrow and disappointment. And 
she wondered, with a dull pain in her heart, what had 
been the tragedy that had driven him to the solitary wilds 
of the desert. She knew nothing of his history, his 
name and the nature of his work amongst the Arabs 
were all that Mrs. Chalmers had confided, and she had 
no means of ever knowing. A being apart, a type that 

had been a revelation, he would pass out of her life, 

abruptly as he had come into it, to forget her in the greater 
interest of his chosen vocation. It was strange to think 

of him as a doctor, living a life of arduous toil and ter¬ 

rible risk. Into what savage and lonely places must he 
go to wrestle with the pain and suffering he sought to 
alleviate. El Hakim—the desert healer! And she, who 
loved him, would have no knowledge of his achievements, 
would never know the final happening that would ter¬ 
minate that life of noble and self-sacrificing endeavour. 
In the pitiless years that stretched so barrenly ahead she 


THE DESERT HEALER 


225 


would have only a memory to cling to, a memory that 
would be at once her consolation and her pain. Into 
the tender, brooding eyes fixed on him there came a 
look of mingled pride and anguish. He would never 
know, thank God he would never know! But if he had 
cared, if she had brought sorrow to him—she caught 
her trembling lip fiercely between her teeth and began 
with fumbling haste to draw on the long gloves he had 
laid on the sofa between them. 

“Oughtn’t we to be going back to the other room?” 

He turned his head slowly. 

“There’s plenty of time,” he said lazily, “they are still 
dancing.” 

“But your desert friends—” 

“—can wait,” he said succinctly. And dreading the 
noisy ballroom, too tired and too utterly indifferent at 
the moment to care if she was outraging the proprieties 
Marny did not press the matter. The quiet conservatory, 
the restfulness and courage she seemed to derive from 
the mere presence of the man beside her were giving 
her strength to meet the ordeal that still lay before her, 
the ugly scene that invariably terminated Geradine’s so- 
called nights of amusement. It would happen tonight, 
as it always happened, and she would have to go through 
with it. For how many more years? She thrust the 
thought from her and turned again to Carew. But be¬ 
fore she could speak the peaceful little winter garden 
was invaded. Not a dancing couple seeking for a soli¬ 
tary spot in which to continue a flirtation begun in the 
ballroom but two men who, deeming the place empty, 
did not trouble to modulate their voices as they took 


226 


THE DESERT HEALER 


possession of a wicker seat a few feet away from the 
fern-hidden sofa. 

“And this soi-disant countess —this copper-haired 
goddess you are raving about—” the words were uttered 
in fluent French but with a rough Slavonic accent. 

“Soi-disant! I have it from her own lips,” interrupted 
an indignant voice that Carew recognised as belonging 
to Patrice Lemaire. 

“Possibly,” was the caustic rejoinder, “but not neces¬ 
sarily correct for all that. An Austrian, you say, from 
Vienna? The wife of a Count Sach who held a court 
appointment, and who abused her infamously—and now, 
since his death, a lady of independent means who travels 
through Europe trying to forget her unhappy past?” 

“That is what I said. Do you doubt it?” 

“Your word, no. But the lady’s—yes.” 

“Why?” 

“You forget, my friend, that I am also of Vienna. I 
have no recollection of a Count Sach who held a court 
appointment, or of the lady who styles herself Countess 
Sach. And she is no more Austrian than you are, Le-' 
maire. From her accent I should judge her to be 
English.” 

“English? Bah! She doesn’t speak a word of the 
language.” 

“She was speaking it very fluently half-an-hour ago 
with the grand Anglais who is drinking himself tipsy in 
the buffet.” 

“With Geradine—that beast! Bon Dieu y she said the 
very sight of him revolted her!” 

“She will probably find the contents of his pocketbook 


THE DESERT HEALER 


227 


less revolting, my credulous young friend. Une jemme 
de moeurs legbres, or I’m very much mistaken.” 

And listening to the cynical laugh that followed, Marny 
wondered bitterly what more of shame and humiliation 
was yet in store for her. At the first mention of her 
husband she had been startled into a quick involuntary 
movement but a strong arm had held her back in her 
seat and cool, steady fingers had closed warningly over 
her ice-cold hands. Wrestling with her own misery, she 
was scarcely conscious of Lemaire’s furious protest or 
of the stormy altercation that ensued, and when at last 
the sound of the men’s angry voices died away as they 
took their dispute elsewhere it was some time before 
she realised that her hands still lay in Carew’s firm grasp. 
She disengaged them silently. There was nothing to 
say, nothing that either of them could say. They had 
overheard what was not intended for them to hear. And 
the Austrian’s insinuations were very likely true. Gera- 
dine had spoken more than once of the beautiful Vien¬ 
nese who had recently dawned on Algiers society with 
no introductions but with an audacity of manner that 
had served her amply instead. That his acquaintance 
had probably developed into a more intimate relation¬ 
ship was no matter for surprise to the wife who was 
fully aware of his flagrant infidelities. It was only one 
more insult added to the many indignities he had put 
upon her, one more humiliation to bear—and ignore. 

But if she was to retain any kind of hold over herself 
she must end at once the brief companionship that had 
given her so much happiness. The proximity of the man 
beside her, the sense of his unspoken sympathy, the 


228 


THE DESERT HEALER 


sudden realisation of the sensuous appeal of her sur¬ 
roundings with its dim obscurity and intoxicating odour 
of languorous-scented flowers was filling her with an 
overwhelming fear of herself. She dared not stay with 
him, dared not give way to the emotion which, growing 
momentarily greater, seemed to be robbing her of all 
strength. The exalted feeling that before had made hei 
glad that only she should suffer was weakening in the 
natural, human longing for the love that would never 
be hers. If she could but tell him, could feel if only for 
once the clasp of his arms around her, the touch of his 
lips on hers! She shivered. What was she thinking— 
what shameless thing had she become? And trembling 
with the very madness of her own wild thoughts she 
rose quickly to her feet, her face coldly set, her voice 
tuned to level indifference. 

“I am quite rested now, Sir Gervas. Shall we go 
back to the ballroom?” Moving away as she spoke she 
gave him no option but to follow her, and an incoming 
stream of people put a period to anything but trivial 
speech between them. 

In the central hall, crowded so as to make progress 
almost an impossibility, an artillery colonel caught at 
Carew’s arm in passing. “When you have time, mon 
cher,” he said hurriedly. “His Excellency is asking for 
you. He is in the White Salon with Sanois and the chief 
of the Ben Ezra.” 

Marny glanced contritely at her escort. How long 
since he had taken her out of the crowded ballroom, 
how long had she trespassed on his time? 

“I am afraid I have monopolised you very selfishly,” 


THE DESERT HEALER 


229 


she murmured shyly, “You must have so many friends.” 

But her faltering words seemed to be lost in the din 
of voices, for he made no answer and his attention 
appeared to be wholly engaged in fending from her the 
jostling press which surged around them. And five min¬ 
utes later he had left her with the British Consul’s wife 
and was retracing his steps to join the informal con¬ 
ference that was taking place in the White Salon. 

He did not go back to the public rooms and the end 
of the evening found him still sitting in the Governor’s 
study with Sanois and a few of the more Gallicized 
chiefs. And for some time after the sheiks had retired 
he lingered chatting with the general, delaying as long 
as possible the moment when he must face alone the 
shattering self-understanding that had come to him. 

The chiming of a deep-toned clock warned him at 
length of the lateness of the hour and he had risen reluct¬ 
antly to his feet when Patrice Lemaire burst into the 
room. The boy’s usually smiling face was flushed with 
anger and he flung himself into a chair with an explosion 
of wrath that did not tend to make more comprehensible 
the rambling sentences he let fall. That somebody had 
gone home early and defrauded him of the dances she 
had promised; that somebody else, name witheld, was 
a vile calumniator; and that there had been a “beastly 
scene,” which he did not particularise, was all he would 
vouchsafe. And unable to get anything more definite 
from him the elder man soon left him to nurse his griev¬ 
ances in solitude. 

There were still a few guests wandering about the 
hall waiting for carriages that were delayed, and a 


230 


THE DESERT HEALER 


harassed attache seized upon Carew to beg a lift for an 
elderly Frenchman who was forlornly contemplating a 
weary walk back to his hotel at Mustapha. 

Only when he had dropped his talkative companion 
was Carew able to give full sway to his own thoughts, 
and when he reached the villa he walked up the flagged 
path too absorbed to notice the shafts of light filtering 
through the closed jalousies of the big front room which, 
though kept in scrupulous orderliness, had never been 
used since his mother’s death. 

He passed into the Mauresque hall and was moving 
slowly in the direction of his own rooms when Hosein, 
emerging from a shadowy corner, glided forward to in¬ 
tercept him. 

“The lalla,” he murmured hesitatingly, his hands sweep¬ 
ing upward to his forehead in a quick salaam. 

His master faced him swiftly. 

“The lalla—?” he repeated sharply. 

The big Arab nodded. 

“The lalla who awaits my lord,” he said softly. 

For a moment Carew’s heart seemed to stand still and 
under the deep tan his face went suddenly white. She 
had come to him—God in heaven, she had come to him! 
Hosein’s tall figure was wavering curiously before him 
as he forced a question in a voice he did not recognise 
for his own. 

“Where?” 

“In the salon, lord,” replied Hosein and gave way with 
another deep salaam. And the whispering swish-swish 
of his robes had died away before Carew moved. 

“In the salon—” He started violently. She had come 


THE DESERT HEALER 


231 


to him—and he—. His face was rigid as he went towards 
the painted door. 

It yielded to his touch and swung to noiselessly be¬ 
hind him, too noiselessly to be heard by her who, at the 
further end of the room, was standing before the por¬ 
trait from which she had stripped the curtains that had 
veiled it for so many years. She was humming a little 
song, a frankly indecent song of the boulevards, her cop¬ 
per-crowned head thrown back, her gleaming shoulders 
twitching from time to time with a petulant movement 
of impatience. 

And behind her, leaning against the portiere in which 
his hands were clenched, Carew stood as if turned to 
stone staring—staring—not at the slender, girlish form 
he had hoped and yet dreaded to see, but at the tall sinu¬ 
ously graceful figure of the woman who had been his 
wife. His wife—that brazen thing of shame, half naked 
in a dress whose audacity revolted him! Fool, fool to 
have thought his own mad longing possible!—to have 
thought that she —He wrenched his thoughts from her. 
And the other? Why had he not guessed, why had 
nothing warned him when he sat listening in the little 
winter garden to the angry protests of Patrice Lemaire 
and the caustic comments of the Austrian who “was also 
of Vienna!” And yet, how could he have known, how 
imagine that she could ever come into his life again. 
And why had she come? To dupe him once more, to 
try and make of him again the same besotted fool who 
had loved her with the blind ardour of a man’s first 
passion? That love was dead, killed by her own duplic¬ 
ity. Between them was an unbridgeable gulf—and the 


232 


THE DESERT HEALER 


memory of a tiny fragile child abandoned with callous 
indifference. A rush of cold rage filled him and with 
blazing eyes he swept across the room. 

His soft-booted feet made no sound on the thick rugs 
and still unconscious of his presence the woman broke 
off her song with a yawn and a flippant remark addresi-td 
to the portrait, and turned to find him at her elbow. For 
what seemed an enmity they stared at each other, her 
eyes but little below the level of his, then she turned 
away with an odd little strangled sound that might have 
been either a sob or a laugh. 

“Why are you here?” His deep voice was hard as 
steel and she raised her head slowly and looked at him, 
a look in which there was latent admiration, wonder, and 
an underlying suggestion of cunning curiously blended. 
“I saw you at the ball. They told me you were going 
back to the desert. I had to come,” she faltered. 

“Why?” His face was devoid of all expression as he 
flung the single word at her. With a lithe, almost feline 
movement of her graceful body that was undisguisedly 
alluring she swayed nearer, her eyes all languorous ap¬ 
peal, her hands outstretched towards him. “I came be¬ 
cause I could not stay away,” she whispered, her voice 
a subtle caress, “because—because—oh, Gervas, can’t 
you understand? I had to come—because—I—love you, 
because I have always loved you—in spite of what I did. 
And I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t think, I 
didn’t realise, he swept me off my feet. And then when 
it was too late—too late”— her arms were round his neck, 
her palpitating limbs pressed close to his —“can you guess 
what I suffered, can you guess what my life has been! 


THE DESERT HEALER 


233 


Gervas, you loved me once, for the sake of that love 
forgive me now, forgive—” 

Throughout her amazing declaration he had stood like 
a rock, his face averted. But as her voice died away in 
a trembling whisper he turned his head quickly, too 
quickly for the comfort of the woman who clung to him 
with passionate fervidness for in the eyes that dropped 
almost instantly under his searching gaze he read, not 
the love and contrition her words implied, but a look of 
hard, eager cupidity. The look of a gambler who watches 
a last and desperate throw. It was not a tardy desire 
for his forgiveness but some other motive which as yet 
he did not understand that had driven her to seek a 
reconciliation with the man who had once been clay in 
her hands. Though his heart was dead to her, almost he 
had pitied her, almost he had believed her. The sobbing 
pleading voice, the absolute abandon with which she had 
Hung herself upon him had been a wonderful piece of 
acting. She played her part with a skill and eloquence 
that, but for that last fatal slip, had almost convinced 
him. But self-convicted she stood for what she was, a 
consummate mistress of deceit—a liar as she had always 
been. To how many others had she made that same glib 
appeal? To how many others had she tendered the 
charms she so lavishly displayed? The hateful thought 
leaped unbidden to his mind as he looked at her with a 
kind of horror, fastidiously conscious of the deteriora¬ 
tion that was so visibly apparent in her. The beautiful 
face so close to his was exquisite as he remembered it, 
but he seemed to see it suddenly with new eyes—the 
face of a woman lost to every sense of morality. To 


234 


THE DESERT HEALER 


what had she sunk during the years since she had left 
him? What had she become—she who had been his 
wife, who had been the mother of his son! “Une femme 
de moeurs legbes .” The Austrian’s sneering voice 
seemed to echo hideously through the silent room and 
with a shudder he unclasped her fingers and put her from 
him. 

“I could have forgiven you—anything,” he said slowly, 
“but the child—” his voice broke despite him and a look 
of bitter pain convulsed his face— “the child you left to 
die alone—and you knew he was_ dying—” 

“It’s a lie,” she cried shrilly. “I didn’t know.” 

He raised his hand with a gesture that silenced her. 

“It is the truth,” he said with accusing sternness. “Do 
you think there was nobody to tell me? The doctor, the 
nurses, everybody but you, his mother, knew that he 
couldn’t live. And you left him. My God, you left him!” 

She flung him a glance of furious anger. “You always 
cared for him more than me,” she sneered, and for a 
moment she braved him audaciously with heaving bosom 
and quivering lips. Then she flinched under his steady 
eyes and shrinking from him flung herself face down¬ 
wards on a sofa and broke into a storm of tears. Tears 
of rage and mortification. With a feeling of suffocation 
he turned away, not troubling to refute the taunt she 
knew as well as he to be untrue. The room that was 
redolent with memories of the noble woman who had 
lived in it seemed suddenly fouled and contaminated. 
And heartsick and shaken by the scene he had gone 
through he crossed to a window and flinging back the 
jalousies, leant against the framework, staring unseeingly 


THE DESERT HEALER 


235 


out into the night, struggling to regain the self-control 
that had almost left him. He was all at sea, striving to 
solve the problem of the woman who lay sobbing on the 
sofa behind him. That the life she had chosen had 
ended in disaster was beyond all question. What she 
had become was too obvious to be mistaken. It was 
written plainly on her face for all to see. But what had 
brought her to such a pass, what had induced the moral 
debacle that was so apparent? What desperate strait 
had driven her to the course she had adopted tonight? 
It was not for love of him she had taken such a step nor 
did she want his love. What then did she want that she 
had come to him like any common courtesan seeking by 
purely physical enticement to regain the old ascendancy 
she had had over him? There seemed only one possible 
solution. And yet, remembering the liberal settlement 
he had made on her, he wondered how even that was 
possible. With a deep sigh he pulled himself together 
and went slowly back to her. 

“Why did you come to me tonight, Elinor?” 

She was still lying prone among the silken cushions, 
but at the sound of his voice she sat up, shivering as 
though the room were cold, her hands clutching at the 
soft pillows of the sofa. 

“I told you,” she said sullenly. 

He made a gesture of impatience. 

“Oh, for God’s sake don’t tell me any lies,” he said 
wearily. “You never cared for me, you don’t care for 
me now. Tell me the truth. For only the truth will 
help either of us tonight. Why did you come?” 

For a second her eyes met his then she looked away 


236 


THE DESERT HEALER 


and a wave of burning colour swamped the delicate pink 
and white of her painted cheeks. “Because I’m at the 
end of my tether—because I’m broke,” she said with a 
reckless laugh that made him wince. 

“And the money I settled on you?” he said slowly, 
hating the necessity that forced him to speak of it. 

“Gone—long since. Did you think I could live on 
that?” she flashed contemptuously. 

With an effort he restrained himself. What use to 

point out to her that what she regarded as a pittance 
would have kept an ordinary family in luxury. 

“Then what you want is money—just money?” he said, 
his voice as contemptuous as her own. 

“I must live,” she retorted. 

“And how have you lived?” he said heavily. The 

colour rose again to her face. “What is that to you?” 
she muttered. 

“Nothing—in one sense. If I am to finance you again 
—everything,” he said curtly. “But I must have details. 
Without them I will do nothing.” He paused for a 
minute, fighting his abhorrence of the whole situation. 

“You call yourself the Countess Sach. It is not the 

name of the man for whom you left me. Is he dead?” 

“I don’t know—I left him,” she answered, very low. 

“Why?” 

“We quarrelled. I left him,” she repeated monoto¬ 
nously. 

“Did he marry you?” 

“No. I—I told you. We quarrelled,” there was a touch 
of asperity in her fretful voice. 

“Did he want to marry you? Was the rupture your 


THE DESERT HEALER 


237 


fault or his?” For a long time there was no answer 
then a whispered “Mine” came to him almost inaudibly. 

“And the Count Sach?” 

“There is no Count Sach.” 

He turned away with a shrug of hopeless perplexity. 
He had learned all he cared to know. To force from 
her the whole story of those sordid years was beyond 
him. It would do no good to either. She had followed 
of her own free will the broad path that leads to destruc¬ 
tion and she had proved to him again tonight her utter 
unworthiness. Heartless and without shame, she wanted 
nothing from him but the means of continuing the life 
she had deliberately chosen. He had provided for her 
once, by no argument or reasoning was she entitled to 
his further bounty. In no sense was he responsible for 
her. In no sense? With his black brows drawn together 
in the heavy scowl that was so characteristic, he paced 
from end to end of the long room, wrestling with him¬ 
self. And on the sofa where she sat immovable the 
woman watched the passing and repassing of the tall, 
stately figure, with glittering eyes that were hard with 
doubt and fear. What would he do? And gradually 
the thought came to her that if she could ever have loved 
any one, she might have loved this man. Not as he was 
in those old days at Royal Carew, but as he was now. 
How he had changed! And as she looked at the stern 
set face that was so different from what she remembered, 
a sudden feeling of fear ran through her. If he would 
only speak, only stop that monotonous pacing, only do 
something to end this horrible waiting. 

He came to her at last and she stumbled to her feet to 


238 


THE DESERT HEALER 


meet him. He spoke swiftly, in a voice that was hoarse 
and strained. He would settle nothing on her, but be¬ 
cause she had been his wife, because of the child she had 
borne him, he would make her an allowance to be paid 
quarterly through his solicitors. He made no conditions 
but he warned her that under no circumstances would the 
allowance ever be increased. 

With averted head and tightly compressed lips she 
listened to him in silence and when he finished speaking 
she made no comment and gave him no thanks. And 
no further word was spoken between them until she left 
the villa in his carriage, driven by Hosein whose silent 
tongue could be depended upon. And as the sound of 
the wheels died away, Carew went back into the house. 
His face was drawn and gray and his usually elastic step 
dragged as he passed slowly through the empty halls and 
across the moonlit courtyard to his own rooms at the back 
of the house and from there out on to the verandah. For 
an instant he stood, his haggard eyes upraised to the 
starry brilliance of the sky, then w r ith a groan that seemed 
to almost burst his heart, he dropped into a chair and 
buried his face in his hands. 


CHAPTER IX 


The first pale streaks of dawn were stealing across 
the sky before Carew stirred from the chair into which 
he had dropped two hours before to face the knowledge 
that had come to him in that tense moment of self-under- 
standing in the little winter garden at the Palace. 
Stunned by the realisation of his own feelings, racked by 
the painful scene following his return to the villa, at first 
concrete thought had been impossible. His whole ability 
to will and do, his whole mental and physical being 
seemed crushed under a weight of sorrow that for the 
time was paralysing. He felt numbed, conscious only 
of the suffering that, clogging his brain, reacted on his 
body leaving him inert and lifeless. 

But gradually his mind cleared and he was able to think 
more calmly. He loved. For the second time in his 
life he loved. And yet it seemed to him that only now 
did he know the depths of his own heart, only now did 
he comprehend what true devotion could really mean. 
The love of his early manhood, the love he had given the 
woman who had been his wife, was not comparable with 
this overmastering passion that had come to him in his 
maturity. If he had loved then as he loved now not even 
the tragedy of twelve years ago could kill that love. And 
the greater, deeper, more wonderful emotion he had only 
just realised was as the dust of ashes in his mouth. 
There was no joy, no hope in this new love. There was 
only the pain of renunciation and the bitter knowledge 
239 


240 


THE DESERT HEALER 


that he had brought sorrow to her for whose sake he 
would gladly die rather than even a shadow should cross 
her path. For that she also loved him he knew beyond 
all doubt. He had read it in her eyes, he had heard it in 
the anguished tones of her voice when the thought of his 
peril had driven her to self betrayal as she listened to his 
story of the finish of Abdul el Dhib. The pain that was 
his was hers also. The thought was torment. Had she 
not already enough to bear without this additional. bur¬ 
den of a love that could never be satisfied, that would 
bring her only grief and the torturing remembrance of 
what might have been? What did his own suffering 
matter compared with the fact that because of him she 
too must suffer? It would have been better, a thousand 
times better, if he had never returned from that last 
hazardous expedition that had ended in the meeting in the 
deserted village by Blidah. And yet, to his fatalistic 
reasoning, that same meeting had seemed a thing or¬ 
dained; but for his coming she must have experienced a 
fate too horrible even to contemplate. It was almost as 
if he had been deliberately guided in the choice of road he 
had taken, as if he had been led to her by some inscru¬ 
table ruling of providence. And though at the time he 
had raged at the necessity that had forced him to help 
her, though his whole soul had revolted from his self- 
imposed task, he knew now that love had leaped into 
being when he had carried her to his camp, and that it 
was love struggling for recognition that had caused the 
misery and mental upheaval of the succeeding weeks. 
But only tonight had he realised it, only tonight had he 
awakened to a full understanding of the almost unbeliev- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


241 


able thing that had happened to him. And how or 
when during their brief meetings she had come to care 
for him he did not know, nor would he ever know. He 
only knew that for some strange inexplicable reason she 
had given him her love, that though she would never be 
his he would carry through life the knowledge that her 
heart was in his keeping. And the knowledge humbled 
him. How could she care! What could she see in him, 
a man nearly twice her age who, until tonight, had treated 
her with scant civility, that she should stoop to bestow 
on him the priceless treasure of her love. But what did 
it matter—enough that she did care and that he would 
have to be content with just the fact of her caring. Con¬ 
tent! Good God, was the intolerable ache that filled him, 
the mad longing that possessed him, contentment! He 
would never be content. The mere knowledge of their 
love was not enough. He wanted her, above his very 
hope of heaven he wanted her. The barriers of defense 
he had raised about himself were torn away at last. The 
dead heart that had lain cold and lifeless within him 
was alive once more. Passion swept, and seething with 
jealousy he made no effort to stem the elemental impulses 
that seemed suddenly let loose and for a time only the 
primitive man in him existed urging his desperate need 
until even murder seemed justifiable to obtain her—the 
murder of the one who stood between him and what he 
wanted. Geradine! His fingers curled and tightened as 
though they were about the throat of the man he hated 
with all the force of his being. That strange hatred was 
no longer incomprehensible, and the thought that had so 
appalled him the night at the opera he viewed now with 


242 


THE DESERT HEALER 


cold dispassion. What was the life of such a brute com¬ 
pared with her happiness and well-being! Was it mur¬ 
der to rid the earth of such scum, to free her from the 
tyranny that was killing her, body and soul? Murder! 
A terrible smile flitted across his face. For her sake he 
could do even that. Nothing mattered but her necessity. 
Beside that justice, honour, the man-made laws of society 
seemed to fade into utter insignificance. And the laws 
of God—was he to trample them under foot as well? If 
it must be. He was willing to risk even his soul to save 
her from further suffering. But w r as there need for such 
a drastic measure—was there no easier way to follow? 
Was there not the way that others had taken—the way 
that would free her from a life of bondage, that would 
give him his heart’s desire? What was scruple to stand 
between them? They had only one life to live—and sho 
loved him. She would come to him —if he made her. 
And for her own sake he would make her—for her sake, 
or for the sake of his own lust? 

“But 1 say unto you that whosoever looketh on a wo¬ 
man to lust after her hath committed adultery with her 
already in his heart 1” 

He started to his feet with a smothered groan. It was 
as if he saw the words in letters of fir6, blazing accusingly 
before his tired eyes. A shudder passed over him and 
something seemed to snap suddenly in his brain dispelling 
the madness of the last few moments and leaving him 
aghast at the horror of his own thoughts. She was not 
for him to covet. He had no right to love her, no right 
to think of her as he was thinking now—yearning for her, 
desiring her with all the strength of his manhood. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


243 


Strength! What strength was left to him who had fore¬ 
sworn himself, who had turned from his lofty ideals and 
yielded to a passion that was ignoble! Conscience-smitten 
he saw himself as he was, fallen from his high estate, 
crashed from his pinnacle of self-righteous exaltation. 
It was repetition of history wherein his role was horribly 
reversed. He was no better in intention than the man 
he had reviled twelve years ago. The sin he had con¬ 
demned was now his sin. He craved another man’s wife, 
craved her with an intensity that had almost swamped 
his sense of right and wrong. And she? A dull flush 
crept over his tanned face. In his mind he had degraded 
and abased her, had dragged her down to the sordid level 
of his own carnal desires. Was his love so vile that he 
must think only of his bodily need? Was physical pos¬ 
session merely the dominating factor of that love? Had 
the years spent in the desert, the years of self-imposed 
abstinence, brutalised him so completely that he was in¬ 
capable of higher, purer sentiment? Did she mean so 
little to him? Deep down in his heart he knew that she 
did not, knew that his love was a greater, finer thing than 
that. It was only the passionate impulse of the moment, 
the crushing sense of abnegation that made him weak, 
that made him want her as he was wanting her now—for 
his own, for that wonderful mating of soul and body that 
might have been theirs. To take her from the life she 
loathed to the freer, wilder life he had made his own; to 
know her safe and happy in his love; to watch the 
awakening of new hope and peace that would chase the 
sorrow from her tragic eyes; to be to her what she would 
be to him—comrade and helper, lover and friend, a part- 


244 


THE DESERT HEALER 


nership made perfect by their mutual love. It was what 
might have been. But now only a dream of joy that was 
unattainable, a vision of heaven that made the bitter cer¬ 
tainty of its unfulfilment a foretaste of hell. God, how 
he longed for her! Marny, Marny! With a strangled 
sob he buried his face in his hands. . . . 

It was long before he stirred to move slowly with 
cramped limbs and aching head to the edge of the veran¬ 
dah where he leant wearily against the pillar that sup¬ 
ported the green tiled roof, staring with haggard eyes 
across the garden at the brightening dawn—a dawn that 
for once gave him no pleasure. 

It was over and done with—the wonderful glimpse of 
happiness that could never be. There was only one road 
to follow, the lonely road that had been his for so many 
years, but lonelier, more desolate now than it ever had 
been. For her sake and for the sake of what honour was 
left to him he must go, and go at once. Back to the 
desert, back to the work he had chosen. Alone—and he 
must go without seeing her again. He dared not see her. 
His confidence in himself was gone. And yet how could 
he go, how could he leave her knowing what her life 
would be, knowing what she must still endure and suffer 
at the hands of the drunken bully who possessed her. 
Geradine, whose name was a by-word, whose brutality 
and viciousness was discussed by all Algiers, whose be¬ 
haviour to his girl wife was openly hinted at! Was he to 
leave her at the mercy of such a man? Even that he 
must do. She was not his—she was Geradine’s wife. 
Geradine’s wife—God help her. And his daily, hourly 
torment would be to know her so. Far from her, power- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


245 


less to help her, he would have to live with the thought 
of her continual agony and sorrow. Merciful God, 
would he be able to bear it! 

Made almost tangible by his longing she seemed to 
come to him where he stood, as once before he had 
seemed to see her in a strip of brilliant moonlight, and he 
stretched out his arms hungrily, whispering her name 
with shaking lips till the mental picture faded and, muf¬ 
fling his face in this thick burnous, he yielded to an agony 
that was greater than he had ever known. The sky was 
aflame, the garden resounding with the early songs of 
birds when he at last regained self-control. But he was 
blind and deaf to the beauty and harmony about him as 
he lingered for a few moments striving to bring some¬ 
thing like order into the chaos of his thoughts. He was 
going back to the camp near Blidah, a camp that would 
be poignantly painful to him with the recollections it 
would induce. He would see her at every turn, the big 
tent that had sheltered her would be a perpetual reminder, 
dominated by the memory of her presence. Even the 
locality would be hateful to him, but to go further was 
impossible while Sanois’ arrangements were still incom¬ 
plete. There was no other course for him to take, no 
other way by which he could effectually prevent any 
further meeting between them. With a little shiver he 
turned and went heavily into the house. The study was 
rank with the fumes of the lamps that had burnt out 
during the night, and he passed quickly through to his 
oedroom beyond. 

As he entered it the door on the further side of the 
room opened and Hosein came in with his usual noise- 


246 


THE DESERT HEALER 


less tread. He offered no explanation for his appearance 
at an unusual hour and Carew asked for none, but know¬ 
ing the man he was positive that the big Arab, on his 
return to the villa, had spent the remainder of the night 
in the adjoining dressing room watching and waiting for 
his master’s coming. Though his gloomy face was, if 
possible, more gloomy than usual, his mere presence was 
a relief, and the customary stolidity with which he 
received his unexpected orders made the giving of them 
easier. Only a quicker service, a gentler handling of the 
garments tossed to him denoted an understanding that 
was more profound than Carew even guessed at. He 
was packing suit cases and holdalls with methodical deft¬ 
ness when Carew came back from his bath. Taught by 
years of experience, he knew even better than his master 
what was required for the protracted journeys in the 
desert which were to him infinitely preferable to the life 
in Algiers, and he took a certain pride in his work which 
was this morning especially noticeable. His face had 
lightened somewhat and he was patently pleased to be 
preparing for the road again. Of necessity Hosein was 
fully aware of the political significance of the forthcom¬ 
ing expedition, he knew also that it was the General 
Sanois who was responsible for the delay that had kept 
them so long in Algiers, and watching him as he moved 
swiftly and silently about the room Carew wondered in 
what degree his servant connected his hasty departure 
with the episode of last night. Distasteful as was the 
thought it was better so than that even Hosein should 
have an inkling of the real truth. 

The valet had already acquainted the household with 


THE DESERT HEALER 


247 


the altered arrangements and in the study, besides the 
coffee and rolls that were waiting for him, Carew found 
Derar full of importance and weighed down with account 
books and the necessary business devolving on himself 
that his master’s absence would entail. And while he 
ate, Carew wrestled with his elderly servitor’s endless 
questions and reiterated demands for instructions with 
the patience he had learned in dealing with the native 
mind. It was useless to remind Derar that the orders he 
gave were in every particular similar to those given many 
times before, that there was to be no departure from 
established precedent but that the villa was to be run on 
the same lines that always prevailed while he was away. 

Pessimistically inclined, Derar, as always, prepared for 
the worst. And Carew, by this time writing cheques and 
orders at his desk, found himself constrained to smile 
more than once at the gloomy anticipations that were 
pronounced with melancholy fervour and interlarded 
with lengthy passages from the Koran. He listened 
quietly to the old man’s garrulous outpourings in which 
lamentations on his departure and pious invocations for 
his welfare were inextricably jumbled with household 
needs and requirements. 

But the strain on his already overstrained nerves was 
greater than he expected and when at last Derar, still 
somewhat tearful but armed with plenary powers that 
made him swell with pride, finally salaamed himself out 
of the room, Carew scribbled a few lines to General San- 
ois and then leant back in his chair with a feeling of 
mental exhaustion. His mind made up to leave Algiers 
the time that must elapse before his actual departure hung 


248 


THE DESERT HEALER 


heavily upon him. He glanced at the clock on his desk. 
It would be half-an-hour or more before his men would 
be ready and, depressed and restless as he was, the min¬ 
utes seemed to drag with maddening slowness. 

To relieve the tedium of waiting he went out into the 
garden. Some little distance from the house, amongst a 
grove of orange trees, he found Saba. Squatting on the 
ground, his nervous little body clad only in a gay striped 
gandhera, a fez perched rakishly on his small sleek head, 
the boy was chattering eagerly to a tiny monkey that was 
clinging to his shoulder. He was too absorbed in his 
newly acquired pet to notice Carew’s almost noiseless 
approach and it was the monkey that twittering shrilly 
with alarm made him realise he was no longer alone. 
He scrambled to his feet, his blind eyes turning uncer¬ 
tainly from side to side until Carew called to him when he 
darted forward, loosening his hold on the monkey which 
fled dismayed up into the branches of the nearest tree. 

The confidant of all the servants, Saba was already in 
full possession of the new orders given to the household, 
and before Carew could speak he was assailed with a 
torrent of excited questions that were hurled at him to an 
accompaniment of joyous squeaks and prancings. The 
child’s pleasure was so obvious that Carew almost wav¬ 
ered in his decision to leave him at the villa with Hosein 
who was remaining a few days longer in Algiers to finish 
the preparations for the journey into the desert. But 
his crying need for solitude made the thought of even 
Saba’s companionship unendurable, and very gently he 
explained his wishes. The boy’s radiant little face 
clouded as he listened, but trained to obedience he did not 


THE DESERT HEALER 


249 


voice his disappointment and very soon he was laughing 
again, childishly eager at the prospect of the journey and 
speculating on the probable number of days Hosein would 
require to complete his arrangements. And at the end 
of half-an-hour Carew left him playing contentedly with 
his recovered monkey and happy in the assurance that the 
separation should be a brief one. 

The score of men who had come into Algiers from the 
camp were already collected when Carew returned to the 
house, and the narrow road that ran past the villa was 
blocked with horses whose riders, still dismounted, were 
exchanging raucous and voluble badinage with the small 
army of household servants assembled to watch the de¬ 
parture. Standing a little apart from the noisy throng, 
reserved and taciturn as was his wont, Hosein was hold¬ 
ing Suliman, restraining with difficulty the spirited 
animal’s manifest impatience. 

Carew’s appearance occasioned a sudden silence among 
his followers and the escort leapt to their horses while he 
himself mounted with less haste and lingered for a few 
moments to give Hosein some final directions. The 
actual moment come he would have given all he possessed 
to be able to remain in the town he had been longing 
weeks to leave. It took all his resolution to persevere in 
the course he had determined and give the men the signal 
for which they were waiting. At the head of his little 
troop he rode away with unaccustomed slowness and with 
a feeling of reluctance that grew momentarily greater as 
each stride of the big bay carried him further from the 
villa. He knew now what the house wanted, why it had 
seemed so empty and desolate, and the knowledge was 


250 


THE DESERT HEALER 


an added pang to the bitterness that filled him. If his 
dream had been possible; if he could have seen her in 
reality, as he visualised her in his mind, the mistress of 
his home bringing life and happiness to the chill and 
formal rooms her presence would enrich and beautify; 
if the end of the journey he contemplated could have 
meant a return to her—Was it strength or weakness that 
was driving him from her now? Again he wrestled with 
the temptation of a few hours ago, a temptation that was 
fiercer, more gripping even that it had been before. Her 
pitiful helplessness seemed to make his flight the act of 
a craven. Of what use were the physical powers with 
which he was endowed if his strength could not save her 
from the life of misery to which she was condemned. 
Geradine’s lack of control, the almost demoniacal rages 
that resulted from his intemperance, was common talk. 
Thick drops of moisture gathered on his face as he 
remembered the man’s huge bulk and pictured her in the 
grip of those coarse, ape-like hands. To what lengths 
had he gone in the past—what devilish torture would he 
yet inflict on the tender little body Carew yearned to 
hold in his arms. His face was drawn with agony as he 
swept the cold sweat from his forehead. 

The road he was following led past de Granier’s villa 
and ran parallel with the densely wooded hillside that 
shadowed its grounds. A sudden impulse came to him 
to look on the house that held the woman he loved—an 
impulse that was a species of subtle self-torture which 
even to himself seemed incomprehensible and to which 
he yielded with a feeling of contempt. Pulling Suliman 
up sharply he swung to the ground and flinging the reins 


THE DESERT HEALER 


251 


to the Arab he beckoned forward bade his escort ride on 
and wait for him beyond the villa. Standing where he 
had dismounted he watched them pass, and the last couple 
were some distance from him before he turned to the 
hillside where a tiny path wound upward between the 
close growing trees. A few minutes’ stiff climb and 
then the path curved abruptly to the left from whence it 
extended more or less levelly in the same direction as 
the road that lay some fifty or sixty feet below. His 
pace slackened as he neared the crossway track that led 
down to the garden entrance of the Villa des Ombres, 
and in a revulsion of feeling he cursed the weakness 
that had brought him there. But having come thus far 
he was unwilling to retrace his steps and, jerking his 
shoulders back with a characteristic gesture of impa¬ 
tience, he moved slowly forward with noiseless tread 
along the winding path that curved and twisted round 
the boles of the big trees. Their great girth obstructed 
anything but a limited view beyond them and made only 
a few yards of the way visible at a time. 

It was still very early. Save for the birds twittering 
amongst the trees and the long strings of woolly cater¬ 
pillars joined one behind the other pursuing their pa¬ 
tient and meandering course over the rough ground, the 
hillside appeared to be deserted. But as Carew rounded 
the trunk of an exceptionally large tree, the jutting roots 
of which made necessary a more than usually wide de¬ 
tour, he came to a sudden halt with a quick intake of 
the breath that was almost a groan. With clenching 
hands and madly racing heart he stared at the girlish 
figure lying huddled amongst the undergrowth almost 


252 


THE DESERT HEALER 


at his feet. Her face was hidden and she lay very still, 
so still that a terrible thought came to him parching his 
mouth and blanching his face under the deep tan. He 
tried to whisper her name but no sound issued from his 
stiff lips and unable to speak, unable to move, time was 
a thing forgotten while he struggled with the paralysing 
fear that held him motionless. 

He never knew how long it was before she stirred, 
before the faint echo of a smothered sob allayed the 
dread that had taken hold of him and lessened the stran¬ 
gling grip that seemed clutching at his throat. But still 
he did not move. He would not go. He had tried to 
play the game—and the game had turned against him. 
He had wrestled with himself to no purpose. Fate had 
played into his hand and the meeting he had sought to 
escape was now unavoidable. The sight of her prostrate 
in an abandonment of grief had shattered all his strength 
—he could not leave her like this. Not trusting himself 
to touch her he waited with an almost bursting heart 
for her to realise his presence—and as once before in 
the opera house, so now did she seem gradually to be¬ 
come aware of the steady stare fixed on her. With a 
shuddering sigh she sat up slowly, turning her head 
towards him. And the deathly pallor of her face, the 
look of frozen misery in her tragic black-rimmed eyes 
sent a rush of savage rage through him that almost 
choked him. God, what must she have suffered to look 
like that! He sought for words but his own suffering 
held him speechless. 

It was she who spoke first. She had looked at him 
almost unknowingly, then a wave of colour rushed into 


THE DESERT HEALER 


253 


her pale cheeks to recede as quickly leaving them whiter 
than before. Stumbling to her feet she stood before him, 
swaying like a reed, struggling to regain her composure, 
striving to formulate the conventional greeting her trem¬ 
bling lips could scarcely utter. “Sir Gervas—” He 
guessed rather than heard the fluttering whisper. But 
before he could answer, before he could wrench his gaze 
from the pain-filled eyes that were wavering under his, 
he saw her stiffen suddenly and shrink from him with 
a backward glance of fearful apprehension. “What— 
who—” she muttered hoarsely. And, listening, he too 
heard the sound that had startled her—the deep murmur 
of men’s voices raised in heated altercation that came 
echoing up the hillside from the roadway beneath them. 
The voices of his own men, as he knew. But what did 
she think? And the anger and hatred that was seething 
within him flamed anew into all but uncontrollable fury 
as he watched her leaning white-lipped and shivering 
against the trunk of the giant cork tree and wondered 
how long it would be before that delicate organism and 
highly strung nervous system finally succumbed to the 
brutal treatment that was slowly but steadily reducing 
her to a physical and mental wreck. His hands clenched 
with the horrible pain of his own helplessness. But with 
a supreme effort he mastered himself, stifling the words 
that sprang to his lips and forcing his voice to natural¬ 
ness as he answered her reassuringly. “It’s only my 
men—arguing as usual, the noisy devils.” 

She looked at him strangely. 

“Your men—” she repeated dully. And pulling herself 
erect she turned abruptly and walked unsteadily to the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


254 

edge of the steep descent. Through the intervening trees 
she could see them clustered at the foot of the hill. His 
men—the lucky ones who were fortunate enough to share 
his life! A feeling of bitter envy came to her and she 
watched them through a mist of tears. Picked men, 
men chosen for their loyalty and endurance. Fierce sons 
of the desert these—differing altogether, even to her 
unpractised eyes, from the Arabs she had seen lounging 
about Algiers—and mounted on magnificent horses which 
they sat superbly. A fit escort for the man who would 
lead them. What did this unusual following portend? 
In Algiers, for she had seen him many more times than 
he knew, he always rode alone. Was this the end at last, 
the time she had looked forward to with dread—the 
time when he would ride out of her life forever? Her 
lips quivered. Never to see him again, never to hear the 
beloved voice whose low, soft intonations would ring in 
her ears while life lasted, never to know again the rest¬ 
fulness and strength his presence brought her! How 
could she bear it, oh, dear God, how could she bear the 
desolation and misery that would be hers! Her trem¬ 
bling hands crept upward to her breast, clenching con¬ 
vulsively over the heart that was aching and throbbing 
with a pain that was intolerable. She must know, though 
knowledge meant the agony of death. 

Shuddering she turned and went slowly back to him. 
A cigarette between his lips, he was leaning against the 
tree where she had leant, his face an impassive mask 
that baffled her. Was the fleeting glimpse of a totally 
different expression she had seemed to see in his eyes 
a few minutes ago only the effect of her own over- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


255 


strained imagination? Was she such a fool that she 
could have thought for one moment of wild sweet hap¬ 
piness, that her love and longing could have begotten his 
love? His indifference seemed complete—the parting 
was nothing to him. How could it be otherwise—it was 
only she who cared, only she whose heart was breaking, 
only she who would be left comfortless and alone. 

The restraint she imposed on herself made her voice 
cold and hard as she uttered the question she nerved her¬ 
self to ask. 

“You are going away?” 

“Yes.” 

Despite herself she winced at the brief syllable of 
assent that was voiced in a tone as cold and as hard as 
her own. 

“Back to the desert?” 

“Yes.” 

“For good?” 

“For good,” he answered firmly. She turned from 
him quickly to hide the tears that blinded her. But a 
strangled sob she had not the strength to restrain 
betrayed her. Almost inaudible it was but he heard it. 

“Marnyl” The cry was wrung from him. And the 
next moment she was in his arms, clinging to him 
despairingly, weeping as he had not believed it possible for 
a woman to weep. Unmanned by her sudden breakdown, 
aghast at the terrible sobs that seemed to be tearing the 
slender little body to pieces, he strained her to him with 
passionate strength. “Marny, Marny, for God’s sake— 
don’t cry like that. Your tears are torturing me.” But 
conscious only of the shelter of his arms, too weak to 


256 


THE DESERT HEALER 


struggle against the feelings she had so long suppressed, 
she was powerless to check the storm of emotion that 
overwhelmed her. Lying inert against him, her face 
hidden in his robes, she sobbed her heart out on his till 
the violence of her grief terrified him and he caught her 
closer, bending his tall head till his cheek was resting on 
her tumbled hair, whispering words of love and entreaty. 

“Have pity on me, child, you are breaking my heart. 
Do you think I can bear to see you weep—Marny, my 
love, my love.” 

Her arm slid up and round his neck. “Oh, let me 
cry,” she moaned, “for five years I’ve had to be a thing 
of stone. If I don’t cry now I shall go mad.” A spasm 
swept across his face and his own eyes were dim as he 
ceased to urge her, waiting patiently till the tempest of 
her tears should pass. And gradually the tearing sobs 
ceased and she regained control of herself. Exhausted 
and ashamed, not daring to meet his eyes, almost dread¬ 
ing the sound of his voice, she clung to him in silence, 
wishing passionately that her life could end, thus, in his 
arms. 

And to Carew the close contact of her trembling limbs 
was a mingled rapture and pain that was agony. His 
face buried in her fragrant hair, he prayed desperately 
for strength to leave her, for strength to meet the part¬ 
ing that must come. 

Still holding her he raised her head with gentle force. 
Her eyes were closed, the thick, dark lashes lying wet on 
her tear-stained cheek, and the hungry longing to touch 
them with his lips was almost more than he could with¬ 
stand. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


257 


“Won’t you look at me, Marny? Am I never to see 
your dear eyes again?” he murmured huskily. 

A tremor passed through her and for a moment she 
did not respond. Then the dusky lashes fluttered faintly 
and slowly the heavy lids unclosed. For long they looked, 
staring as though into each other’s souls, and against her 
tender breasts she felt the violent beating of his heart. 

A quivering sigh escaped her. “Gervas—oh, Gervas. 
Gervas,” she whispered, and lifted her face to his. The 
sadness in his eyes deepened into anguish and his firm 
mouth trembled as he shook his head. 

“I mustn’t kiss you, dear. Your lips are his—not mine, 
God help me. I haven’t even the right to touch you. 
I’m a cur to hold you in my arms like this, but I can’t 
let you go—not yet, not yet, my darling.” His voice 
broke, and insensibly his arm tightened round her, crush¬ 
ing her to him with a force of which he was unaware. 
She turned her head with a little sob. “How could we 
know that this would come to us—how could we know 
that we would care,” she cried. “I never thought you 
loved me. I thought it was only I who—who—” She 
clenched her teeth on her lip, fighting the sobs that were 
rising in her throat. “Oh, why was it you that came 
that night near Blidah!” she burst out passionately. 
“What did my life matter? And I—I who would die for 
you, I’ve brought you unhappiness. Gervas, why don’t 
you hate me!” 

“I thought I did—once,” he answered with a twisted 
smile, and brushed the shining hair tenderly from off 
her forehead. 

Physical pain had been forgotten in the mental agony 


258 


THE DESERT HEALER 


that swamped her but now, remembering, too late she 
tried to stop him and he had seen the ugly wound on 
her white brow before her flying hand reached his. A 
sharp exclamation broke from him. “What have you 
done to yourself? My God , has he dared —” His face 
was ghastly and the look in his blazing eyes terrified her. 
Fearful of the consequences of his anger, fearful of she 
knew not what, she lied to shield the husband who had 
struck her. 

“No—no—” she panted. “I slipped—I slipped in my 
room last night.” 

Love and intuition told him that she was lying and he 
put her from him with a groan of helpless misery. And 
free of his supporting arm she slid to the ground for her 
limbs were trembling under her. He sat down near her, 
staring gloomily before him, wondering how he could 
bring himself to leave her, tortured with what he had 
seen and cursing the man whom, more than ever, he 
longed to kill. 

Her sorrowful eyes never left his stern, set face and 
at last she could bear the silence no longer. Her hand 
stole out timidly and touched his. “What are we going 
to do?” She waited long for his answer, so long that 
she wondered if he had heard the faint whisper, and her 
trembling fingers tightened on his arm. “Gervas, speak 
to me,” she entreated. 

“What is there for me to say,” he answered, and his 
voice was harsh with the effort speech cost him. “There 
is nothing to do but the one hard thing that is left to us. 
We have got to forget that this morning has ever been. 
We have got to forget everything but the fact that you 


THE DESERT HEALER 


259 


are bound, that you are not free to come to me. If there 
was some other way, if I could have taken you—” He 
tore his eyes from her face and leaped to his feet. “But 
there is no other way,” he cried with sudden violence. 
“I can’t take you. You’ve got to forget, and forgive 
me—if you can.” 

She buried her face in her hands. 

“Forget!” she wailed. “Will you forget?” 

“Not in this life nor in the life to come,” he whispered 
swiftly. 

With a sob that wrung his heart she flung out her arms 
appealing. “I can’t bear it, Gervas, I can’t live without 
you.” 

He caught the outstretched hands in his and drew her 
to her feet. 

“Don’t make it harder for me, dear. God knows it’s 
hard enough,” he said unsteadily. “I love you. I want 
you—more than anything in heaven and earth I want 
you—but I’ve got to leave you. Help me to to do the right 
thing, Marny. Help me to go, now, while I have the 
strength.” But with a broken little cry she clung to him, 
her eyes beseeching. 

“I can’t, I can’t! I’m not strong like you. I can’t 
let you go yet—not altogether—not back to the desert. 
Stay—only stay till we leave,” she pleaded, “it won’t be 
long, only a few weeks—” 

“My dear, what help will it be if I do stay?” he said 
wearily. “It will only make it harder for both of us.” 
But frantically she urged him. “Please, please,” she 
entreated. “Oh, I can’t explain—I don’t know what I feel 
myself—but there seems to be something awful coming 


260 


THE DESERT HEALER 


nearer and nearer to me and I’m frightened —Vm fright¬ 
ened. If I could know you were in Algiers it would 
make it easier—I shouldn’t feel so—alone. Gervas, if 
you love me stay till we go.” 

If he loved her! He clenched his hands to keep them 
from her and turned away with a heavy sigh. “Must I 
prove my love?” he said sadly. A sob broke from her. 
Did he think she doubted? Why was she such a coward 
as to ask this thing of him! Humbly she went to him 
begging his forgiveness but with a quick gesture of 
distress he stopped her. 

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said gently, “there 
can be no misunderstanding possible between us, dear. 
If it will help you, if my being in Algiers will make it 
easier for you, I will stay until you go. But more I 
cannot do. This has got to be the end, Marny. We’ve 
got to say goodbye to each other. I mustn’t see you 
again—I daren’t see you again.” 

A deadly faintness came over her. Numbly she felt 
him take her hands and hold them crushed against his 
face. And through the surging in her ears she heard his 
voice, far off and muffled as though coming from some 
great distance. 

“My dear, my dear—God keep you, now and always.” 

And then she knew that he was gone. She struggled 
to move, to conquer the inertia that seemed rooting her 
to the ground. Only to see him again—to catch one last 
glimpse— 

Tears were raining down her face as she stumbled to 
the edge of the little path and, screened by the trees, 
looked down on the roadway beneath. With her hands 


THE DESERT HEALER 


261 


pressed over her lips to stifle the sobs that were choking 
her she watched him standing beside his men till the little 
troop vanished in a cloud of dust along the Blidah road 
and, left alone, he leaped on to his own horse and sent 
him at a reckless gallop in the opposite direction. Then 
a merciful blackness came over her and she fell sense¬ 
less amongst the tangled ferns. 

There followed a week that for Carew was a period 
of uninterrupted suffering, suffering that seemed to grow 
more acute, more unbearable with each succeeding day. 
With nothing to look forward to, with no hope to ease 
the burden of his loneliness and longing, with the bitter 
knowledge burning into him that barely half-a-mile away 
in her prison house of misery she too was suffering, he 
struggled through days that seemed endless and nights 
that were torment. 

Seeking for distraction, for anything that would occupy 
his enforced leisure and turn the trend of his thoughts, 
he offered his services to Morel and toiled in the 
scientist’s laboratory from early morning till late in 
the evening, endeavouring by hard work to deaden the 
pain that never left him. During the long hours of self- 
imposed labour he strove to banish her from his mind, to 
concentrate solely on the experiments that at any other 
time would have claimed his whole attention. But the 
remembrance of her was with him continually. While 
he carried out Morel’s instructions with mechanical pre¬ 
cision he seemed to feel her presence close beside him, 
to see clearly before his eyes the piteous tear-stained face 
that would always haunt him, and through the stillness 


262 


THE DESERT HEALER 


of the silent workroom he could almost hear the sobbing 
tones of her anguished voice. “Gervas, I can’t live with¬ 
out you!” And he had left her, left her to Geradine’s 
mercy. If, in the grip of this tremendous passion that 
had come to him so strangely, he had sought to entice 
her from a husband who cared, or from one who—though 
indifferent—still treated her with ordinary decency and 
respect, he would have known his offence to be unfor¬ 
givable. But chained as she was to a beast like Gera- 
dine, the marks of whose brutality he had himself seen 
on her delicate face, was there not excuse for his love, 
for the raging temptation that still assailed him to take 
her from a life of martyrdom and give her the happiness 
that was her youth’s prerogative? How had she come to 
be the wife of that drunken, hectoring bully—what unthink¬ 
able ordering could have linked her life with his? 
Impossible that she could ever have loved him. Surely 
the mere brute strength of the man could not have 
attracted her, inducing her to a step she had lived to rue. 
Five years, she had said. Five years ago she must have 
been only a child—she was little more now. What cir¬ 
cumstances or what tragedy had thrust an immature girl 
into the keeping of such a profligate! And what had 
those five years meant to her! As the days dragged 
slowly by and he applied himself to the work to which 
he forced his wandering attention he wrestled with a 
problem he could not hope to solve, racking himself with 
the thought of what she must have endured and would 
still have to endure. 

But it was the nights he dreaded most. The nights 
when, waking from fitful sleep that, dream-haunted, gave 


THE DESERT HEALER 


263 


him no rest, he stared wide-eyed into the darkness mur¬ 
muring her name, aching for her, till the pain of it drove 
him out into the garden there to tramp the dark tree- 
bordered alleys and star-lit stretches of grass until bodily 
fatigue brought him back to the house to toss wakefully 
and watch for the dawn when he could start for the 
early morning rides that were his only alleviation. It 
was in the lonely hours of the night that the thought of 
her suffering was strongest with him. It was then that 
his fevered mind, unchecked in his solitude, became the 
prey of ghastly imaginings until, half mad with his own 
thoughts, he almost yielded to the temptings of the 
insidious inward voice that bade him forego honor and 
take the happiness he had sacrificed. Was he to stand 
aside while her youth and health were wrecked? Was 
she to be offered up on the altar of his conscience? Must 
she be the victim of his scruple? “She would have gone 
with you—she would have gone with you that morn¬ 
ing—” Night after night the mocking voice rang in his 
ears, and night after night he fought the same fight in 
anguish of soul, battling with the promptings of his 
heart. 

Then came a day when a telephone message from 
Morel, who had received an urgent summons to Paris, 
put a stop to the work at the laboratory and left him to 
face inactivity he viewed with dismay. In no mood for 
the society of either General Sanois or the officers at 
the barracks, resolved to run no chance of a further 
meeting with the woman he had determined never to see 
again, he passed the long hours of the morning, sitting 
on the verandah with a medical book in his hand which 


264 


THE DESERT HEALER 


he did not read, and in restless wandering about the 
lovely garden whose loveliness was lost on him. 

Utterly weary of himself, for the first time in days, 
he would have welcomed the companionship of Saba. 
But the blind boy was at the camp near Blidah whither 
he had been despatched when Carew had decided to 
remain on in Algiers. The day seemed interminable. 

Worn out with sleepless nights he slept heavily for the 
greater part of the afternoon and was awakened with 
difficulty by Hosein in time for the solitary dinner he 
thought would never end. Afterwards, ordering coffee to 
be brought to him, he strolled through the silent halls and 
empty rooms back to the verandah where he had spent 
most of the day. 

The night was singularly dark but the darkness agreed 
with his own gloomy thoughts and after he had finished his 
coffee he extinguished the reading lamp on the table near 
him and sat for a long time staring fixedly into blackness. 

Inaction became at last impossible. He had sat for 
two hours and his limbs were cramped and his head 
throbbing for need of physical exercise. Two more hours 
and he would be ready to blow his brains out, he reflected 
with a dreary laugh. Going to his bedroom he changed 
quickly into Arab dress and left the house unseen. 

Beyond the door in the wall he hesitated frowning. 
Then with a shrug and a muttered oath he turned in the 
direction of de Granier’s villa. To torture himself by 
gazing on the house was not to see her, he argued. By 
no reasoning could he be said to be breaking the resolu¬ 
tion he had made. The road was free to him as to any 
other. And what chance was there of seeing her at this 


THE DESERT HEALER 


265 


time of night! Jerking his heavy cloak back he stopped 
to light a cigarette and then strode on with the slow step 
to which flowing robes had accustomed him. 

For a time it appeared as if no other midnight wan¬ 
derers were abroad, but as he neared the high enclosing 
wall of the Villa des Ombres his quick ears caught the 
sound of hurrying, stumbling feet and the raucous 
intonations of a voice he recognised. Instinctively he 
shrank into the deeper shadow of the wall as Tanner, 
the English groom, reeled past him with words that 
seemed to turn the blood in his veins to ice. “The swine, 
the swine—the blasted swine! ’E’ll do ’er in, by Gawd, 
’e will! Christ, ’ow she screamed—and the damned door 
locked so as I couldn’t get in! And ’im mad drunk— 
the beast! My Gawd, my Gawd, what’ll I do? I’ll ’ear 
them screams till I die!” And sobbing and blaspheming 
in impotent rage the little man tore on and vanished into 
the night. 

But towards the house from which the groom had fled, 
Carew was racing with a deadly fear knocking at his 
heart. The gates were open and, panic-driven, he dashed 
along the carriage drive and up the steps of the villa 
hurling himself against the door which, unbarred, gave 
way before him. In the dimly-lit entrance hall he 
stumbled and almost fell headlong over the prostrate 
figure of an Arab who moaned and writhed on the 
marble floor. Callous to everything but the one ghastly 
fear that gripped him, Carew kicked his feet clear of 
the man’s robes and shook him roughly. But the fiercely 
uttered question died on his lips as a piercing shriek 
rang through the silent house. A shriek that was fol- 


266 


THE DESERT HEALER 


lowed by others so terrible, so frenzied, that for a moment 
he reeled under the horror of them. And with the 
agonizing screams was mingled the sound of a man’s raving 
and other more pregnant sounds that drove Carew 
to the verge of madness. With a groan he leaped to 
the door of the room where was the woman he loved, 
but, locked from within, it resisted his furious onslaught 
and, a? well aquainted with the villa as he was with his 
own, he knew that to force in was impossible. Desper¬ 
ately he wrenched at the handle, then a sudden 
thought came that sent him flying down the corridor. 
There was another door leading into the drawing room, 
a secret door that, flush with the wall and hidden by 
curtains, was possibly unknown to the tenants who had 
rented the house. Reaching the ante-room with which 
it communicated and tearing aside the embroidered hang¬ 
ings he flung his whole weight against the fragile 
panels, crashing through into the room beyond. One 
sweeping glance sufficed him. Dragging his eyes from 
the battered little body stretched almost at his feet he 
crouched for an instant, stiffening like a wild beast pre¬ 
paring to spring, his face the face of a madman. 

And startled by his sudden appearance, too blind with 
passion tb recognise the man who had gone through the 
sandstorm with him, Geradine saw in the tall, robed 
figure facing him only an unknown Arab who had dared 
to force a violent entrance into his house and he flung 
forward with a savage snarl, brandishing the heavy 
hunting crop with which he had flogged his wife into 
insensibility. 

“You damned nigger,” he bellowed. “What the hell—” 


THE DESERT HEALER 


267 


But with the sound of his voice Carew sprang, his 
clenched fist driving straight at the other’s mouth. For 
a second Geradine staggered, then with a roar of mingled 
pain and fury he slashed with the crop at Carew’s face. 
But the blow fell short and the next moment two power¬ 
ful arms closed round him. Though strong above the 
average, his life of intemperance had unfitted him for 
any protracted struggle and tonight, wearied already by 
his outburst of savagery and not sober enough to use 
with advantage what strength he had, he was helpless 
in the grip of the muscular hands that seemed to be 
crushing the life out of him. Choked with the strangling 
hold on his throat he was almost unconscious when the 
clutching fingers slid suddenly to his arm and he was 
forced to his knees. 

And with the whip that was still wet with her blood 
Carew avenged the woman who lay so deathly still 
beside him. Maddened with the thought of her suffering, 
he wielded the heavy weapon till Geradine’s coat and 
shirt were torn to ribbons, crimson stained and sticky, 
till his moans became fainter and finally died away, till 
his own arm grew tired with the punishment he inflicted. 
Only then did he fling the whip from him. Scarcely 
glancing at the inert figure sprawled face downwards on 
the floor, indifferent whether he had killed him or not, he 
turned slowly to that other pitiful little figure and, hardly 
conscious of what he did, tore the burnous from his 
shoulders, and wrapping it round her lifted her into his 
arms and carried her away. 

The hall was empty as he passed through it. But he 
was oblivious of the apparently deserted house, oblivious 


268 


THE DESERT HEALER 


of everything but the slight burden he held. As if in a 
dream, his mind almost a blank, he followed mechanically 
the road by which he had come half an hour before. And 
not until he had reached his own villa, until, led by 
instinct rather than definite reasoning, he found himself in 
his own bedroom, did the dream-like feelings pass and he 
awoke to realize what he had done. But that could wait. 
At the moment only she mattered. 

Laying her on the bed he stripped the blood-wet silken 
rags from her lacerated shoulders, wincing in agony as 
they clung to the delicate broken flesh his trembling lips 
covered with passionate kisses. But he was doctor as 
well as lover and, forcing his shaking fingers to steadiness, 
he bathed the cruel wounds with tender skill, doing all 
that was possible for her comfort before he dropped to 
his knees to wait till she should regain consciousness. 
And when at last she stirred it was some time before 
recognition dawned in the dazed eyes that were gazing 
blankly into his. But the sudden joy that filled them 
faded swiftly into a look of terrible fear. 

With a cry that greyed his face she flung herself into 
his arms. 

“Don’t let him get me! Don’t—let—him—get me,” she 
shrieked, again and again, till the horror of it was more 
than he could bear and he crushed her face against him 
to stifle the sounds he knew would ring in his ears while 
life lasted. 

“Hush, hush,” he whispered, almost fiercely. “It’s done 
—it’s finished. He will never touch you again. You need 
never see him again. Lie still and rest. There’s not a 
soul who knows where you are but me.” And even in the 


THE DESERT HEALER 


269 


extremity of her terror his voice had power to soothe her 
and she relaxed in his arms with a shuddering sob. For 
a long time he held her silently, fighting the biggest battle 
of his life, striving to subdue self, to think only for her. 
But her nearness made thought impossible and at last, in 
despair, he sought to rise. She clung to him with a 
murmur of entreaty. 

“Let me go, dear,” he muttered. “I’ve got to think— 
I’ve got to think what is best to do.” And tenderly he 
put aside her trembling hands. 

Fear fled back into her eyes as she watched him cross 
the room to the open window, and slipping from the bed 
she waited for what seemed an eternity, shaking with 
weakness, afraid to question him, afraid for the moment 
of the man himself. 

And when at length he spoke, in a voice that was 
almost unrecognisable, he did not look at her. “I can 
get you out of Algiers—that is easy. But to whom shall 
I take you? Where are your people?” 

For a moment she stared in dazed unbelief, then with 
a pitiful sob, she staggered nearer to him. “Gervas, don’t 
you love me—don’t you want me?” 

His face was anguished as he flung towards her. 
“Want you? My GocU” he groaned, “but it’s not what I 
want that matters. It is you I am thinking of. You are 
Geradine’s wife—I can’t take you. I can’t dishonour 
you. I can’t drag you through the mud—” 

“Mud!” she echoed, with a terrible laugh, “what mud 
could you drag me through that would be worse than the 
mud that has choked me for five ghastly years? Gervas, 
Gervas, I’ve come to the end. I can’t fight any more. I 


270 


THE DESERT HEALER 


can’t bear any more. I’ve no one to turn to—no people 
—no friends. There’s nobody in all the world who can 
help me—but you. If you won’t save me I will kill 
myself. I swear it. Oh, Gervas, have pity! Take me away. 
I’m safe only with you. I’ll be your servant—your slave 
—anything you will—only save me, save me! If I see 
him again I shall go mad— mad —” She was at his feet, 
clasping his knees, her upturned face wild and distorted 
with terror. And as he swept her up into his arms with a 
gasp of horrified protest and looked into her frenzied 
eyes, he knew that she was very near to madness now. 
But still he hesitated. 

“You know what it will mean if I take you with me 
into the desert?” 

“I know, I know,” she sobbed, “it will mean heaven and 
rest and joy unspeakable. And I—who have lived in 
hell! Oh, Gervas, give me the chance of happiness!” 

It was not what he meant, but he saw that she was past 
understanding. Only by keeping her could he avert the 
mental breakdown which was imminent. To save her 
reason he must do that for which his heart was clamour¬ 
ing, that which he had determined never to do. 

And in the light that leaped involuntarily to his eyes 
she read his answer even before he stooped his lips to 
her trembling mouth. 


CHAPTER X 


Very early in the morning, in the dark hour that pre¬ 
cedes the dawn, Marny Geradine rode out from Algiers 
in the guise of an Arab boy, her slender figure concealed 
in the voluminous folds of a long white burnous, her fair' 
face hidden by the haick that was pulled far forward 
over her brow. Beside her Hosein was riding with a 
wary eye on her horse, ready at any moment to catch the 
bridle should the nervous strength that was supporting her 
fail suddenly. A few paces ahead of them, Carew, in the 
dark blue burnous he affected, was hardly distinguishable 
in the gloom. Trembling with bodily weakness and the 
still lingering fear she could not conquer, she strained 
her eyes to keep him in sight. Only with him near her 
was she safe. On him and on his strength she was Utterly 
dependent, for she had no longer any strength of her 
own. The courageous spirit that had sustained her for 
so long was broken at last, and spent in mind and body 
her only hope was in him. He had sworn that she was 
safe, that he had passed unrecognised through the Villa 
des Ombres, that he had brought her unseen to his own 
house. But the words that had soothed her as he held 
her in his strong embrace seemed to lose power when he 
was absent. He had been obliged to leave her almost at 
once and the touch of his first kiss was still warm on her 
lips when he had hurried away to make the arrange¬ 
ments for which so little time was available. He had 
bade her rest, but nerve racked and overwrought, rest had 
271 


272 


THE DESERT HEALER 


been impossible as she lay starting and shivering at every 
noise that echoed through the strange house. Like a ter¬ 
rified child that requires repeated and audible consola¬ 
tion, she longed for the sound of his voice, for the tangible 
comfort of his shielding arms. 

And now as she rode through the deserted streets of 
the sleeping suburb, fear for herself was mingled with a 
new and terrible fear for him. She had as yet no knowl¬ 
edge of what had passed in the Villa des Ombres after 
she had lost consciousness and she was obsessed with the 
thought of her husband. She saw him in every shadow, 
the very sound of the horses’ feet seemed to her excited 
fancy like hurrying pursuing footsteps. She hated herself 
for her want of confidence. At the bottom of her heart 
she knew that her trust in Carew was implicit, that it 
was only her overstrained nerves that made her shiver 
with dread, that turned her sick each time her horse 
quickened his pace or swerved from some object that 
only he could see. She tried to fight against her weak¬ 
ness, to believe that her disguise was complete, but she 
knew that she would have no peace until the town was 
left behind, until, the open country reached, she could 
abandon the role of attendant and ride beside the man to 
whom she had given herself and gain fresh strength and 
courage from his nearness. And from time to time 
unconsciously she strove to lessen the distance between 
them, checking her horse again with a sharp little sigh 
as she heard Hosein’s voice “ Doucement , doucement” 
repeated warningly. 

The way seemed never ending. 

To avoid passing the Villa des Ombres a wide detour 


THE DESERT HEALER 


273 


was necessary and Marny began to think they would 
never win clear of the tree-lined avenues and succession 
of silent villas that appeared to extend indefinitely. 

There were few abroad at this early hour, but the occa¬ 
sional passing of some chance pedestrian made her shrink 
within the folds of the enveloping burnous, wild eyed with 
apprehension and faint with the heavy beating of her 
tired heart. And once the sound of galloping hoofs 
behind them came near to shattering what little self-control 
was left to her and with a choking cry she drove her 
horse against Hosein’s, clutching frantically at the man’s 
arm and reeling weakly in the saddle. But it was only an 
Arab, wraith-like in the darkness and immersed in his 
own concerns, who tore by at breakneck speed on a raking 
chestnut that squealed an angry defiance at the other 
horses as he clattered past. She recovered herself with a 
feeling of shame for her own cowardice, wondering miser¬ 
ably if she would ever regain the strength and nerve that 
five years of crushing experience had slowly sapped from 
her. Once she had not known what it meant to be tired 
or afraid. Weariness and pain to her had been merely 
terms, without meaning, without significance. But in 
those five years she had learnt a bitter lesson. Physically 
and mentally she had suffered until suffering had become 
the dominant factor in her existence, until she had won¬ 
dered how far endurance went, how long before her 
burden would become heavier than she could bear. And 
now, still dazed with the horror of the last few hours, 
she could hardly believe in the fact of her deliverance. 
Was it really over, the life of pain that had transformed 
her from a happy carefree child into a sorrowful djsillu- 


274 


THE DESERT HEALER 


sioned woman who had prayed for death to release her 
from bondage that was intolerable. And death had been 
very near to her last night. She had realised it when, 
seeking to prevent what she knew to be an injustice, she 
had thrown herself between her husband and the 
wretched Arab valet and Geradine, mad with drink and 
rage, had turned to wreak on her the same punishment he 
had inflicted on his servant. His face had been the face 
of a devil, distorted almost beyond recognition, and in his 
glittering red flecked eyes she had read her fate. Tempor¬ 
arily insane he was past knowing what he did and, 
helpless against his strength, she was well aware now that 
but for the coming of Carew the ghastly scene must have 
ended in tragedy, that body or brain must have suc¬ 
cumbed to the fury of his passion. Never while she 
lived would she forget. Still close to hers she seemed to 
see that savage bestial face, the staring bloodshot eyes 
blazing with merciless ferocity, her lacerated shoulders 
still quivered as if they shrank again under the cruel 
blows that had rained on her till consciousness fled. The 
brutality of years had reached culmination when, with 
words whose foulness had scorched her soul, he had 
beaten her like a dog. That was what she had been! His 
dog—kicked or caressed as the mood took him. A thing 
of no account. His chattel—sold to him like a slave in 
an eastern market, taken by him merely to satisfy his 
basest instincts. Shudderingly she tried to banish thought, 
to put him from her mind, but her shaken brain was 
beyond control and over and over again she lived through 
the cruelty of the years that were past until every nerve 
in her aching body seemed strained to breaking point. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


275 


Trembling from head to foot and bathed in perspira¬ 
tion she wondered if the horror of it would ever leave 
her, if all her remaining life was to be a nightmare of 
hideous recollection. 

Drooping with fatigue, her wet hands slipping on the 
bridle she grasped mechanically, she prayed desperately 
for the open country that meant freedom and happiness. 
And gradually, yielding to the physical pain that was 
swamping all other feeling, she ceased to notice the locality 
through which they were passing and she had almost 
drifted into unconsciousness when the sound of the voice 
she had longed for roused her to the fact that at last the 
town was left behind. Slowly she raised her head to 
meet the grave eyes that looked searchingly into hers. 
And at sight of her face Carew reined nearer, and she 
felt his cool strong fingers close with practised touch 
about her wrist. 

“Can you hold out a bit longer, dear? We’re rather 
close to Algiers yet,” he said. And the tender anxiety of 
his voice made her set her teeth to keep back the sob that 
rose in her throat, a sob of joy and wonder at the consider¬ 
ation to which she was so unused. She drew herself 
straighter in the saddle and smiled at him bravely. 

“I’m all right,” she gasped, “if—if I can ride beside 
you,” she added, faintly. His lips tightened as he eyed 
her doubtfully. Then without answering he wheeled Suli- 
man towards the south. 

The movements of her horse were easy, and away from 
the metalled roads the slow canter at which they rode 
was less jarring, but it took all her resolution to maintain 
the upright carriage she had adopted and hide from him 


276 


THE DESERT HEALER 


the weakness that was steadily overcoming her. The 
nervous strength that had upheld her at first was slipping 
from her fast now that the immediate fear of discovery 
was past, and in the reaction of relief she feared the 
collapse that was threatening momentarily. She pulled 
the haick closer about her face that he might not see the 
moisture lying thick on her forehead and rode on with 
compressed lips fighting the spells of faintness that made 
her head reel and the surrounding landscape appear to 
waver in curious undulations before her eyes. 

The dawn was brightening. Already it was light 
enough to see distinctly, and despite her fatigue, Marny 
looked with interest on a district that was new to her. 

For some time still their way led past farms and fruit 
gardens, but of human life they saw little. And the few 
field workers and goatherds they met were absorbed in 
their own affairs and paid no heed to their passing, or at 
most bestowed on them a perfunctory salaam that was due 
to Carew’s supposed rank. He looked like a chief, she 
thought with a strange new feeling of pride. It was 
difficult seeing him thus to remember that he was an 
Englishman. To her he would always be an Arab, a 
man of the open, a desert dweller. And in the sandy 
wastes of the great wilderness towards which her 
thoughts had turned so longingly she would live with him 
the wild free life of her dreams, a life that might prove 
hard and dangerous but a life that would be made sweet 
by his love and companionship. If only she need not have 
come to him like this! If only he had found her in the 
time of her unfettered girlhood when he could have taken 
her unstained and without dishonour! But over their 


THE DESERT HEALER 


277 


love now hung the shadow of disgrace. And it was for 
her sake that he had done what would be held up to him 
as a reproach. For her sake—He heard the strangled 
sob she tried to smother and winced, his eyes sweeping 
the horizon impatiently. He knew that she had almost 
reached the limit of her endurance and his arms were 
aching to hold her, to ease the pain of her weary little 
body against his own strong limbs, but while the scattered 
farms still stretched about them he dared not risk the 
chance of passing observation. Neither, because of her 
weakness, did he dare to quicken their slow pace—an 
unaccustomed pace at which Suliman was fretting and pro¬ 
testing, rearing from time to time as he tried to break 
into the usual gallop. 

But at length the last outlying vineyard was passed, 
and screened by the rising ground of the foothills they 
were approaching, precaution was no longer necessary. 
With a sigh of relief Carew swung his horse close to hers 
and, bending sideways, lifted her easily out of the saddle. 
She yielded without demur, relaxing against him with a 
moan of utter exhaustion. He knew that she was crying, 
but he knew also that the tears which hurt him so poig¬ 
nantly were necessary to relieve the excited brain that had 
gone so perilously near to destruction and he made no 
attempt to check them. Tightening his arm about her he 
gave Suliman his head. And with a snort of pleasure 
the big bay leaped forward, free to go his own pace at 
last, galloping as he had galloped when once before he 
had carried double. The memory of that midnight ride 
came to Carew as he glanced down at the girl he held 
before him. With what different feelings he had carried 


278 


THE DESERT HEALER 


her then! How he had revolted at her proximity, hating 
the slight burden that was now so precious. Every mo¬ 
ment had been torture. Now, in the ecstasy that filled 
him, he wished that the way were longer, that the moment 
might never come when he would have to waken from his 
dream ride of almost unbelievable happiness and face the 
stern realities of the difficult course that lay before them. 
For an instant his sombre eyees grew stern and brooding, 
then he thrust the thought of the future from him. There 
was time, and enough to think of that. Now he could 
only think of her. His face grew very tender, very piti¬ 
ful as he looked at her. Poor little tired child, bruised 
and broken with appalling experience—would even his 
love, great as it was, compensate for the suffering that 
had wrecked her young life? All that was best in him 
rose up as he caught her closer with a stifled whisper. 
That he might never fail her, that she might never regret 
the step she had taken, never regret the faith she had in 
him, was the prayer that burst from his innermost soul— 
a prayer that was deeper, more fervent than any he had 
ever uttered in his life. 

But as the bay tore on with long swinging strides that 
were the perfection of movement, Carew put from him 
everything but the joy of the moment. After the en¬ 
forced stay in a town he had come to loathe, after the 
tedious days of comparative inactivity made hideous by 
mental struggle, he felt like a man released from prison. 
Behind him lay all he wished to forget. Before him lay a 
new life, new happiness, new hope. He could hardly 
realise yet what it meant to him. No longer alone, with 
something more than his work to live for, he seemed to 


THE DESERT HEALER 


279 


see the world suddenly with new eyes—a world of new 
wonder, a world transformed and beautified. Eagerly he 
looked at the brightening sky. The dawn had almost 
come, a dawn that was to him symbolical. 

A feeling of exultation came over him. The wild rush 
through the air, the cool wind blowing against his face, 
was like an intoxicant stirring him as it always stirred 
him, and today more powerfully than ever before. For 
did he not hold in his arms his heart’s desire—was not 
the woman he had craved his at last! With a quick fierce 
laugh he drove his knees into Suliman’s ribs and swung 
him round to face the open hillside. Gallantly the horse 
attacked the steep incline, but the gradient was punishing 
and gradually his pace slackened till it dropped to a walk 
and, picking his steps carefully amongst the scrub and 
boulders, he wound his way laboriously up the twisting 
track till he reached the summit to stand with heaving 
sides and wide distended nostrils. 

And at the same moment the sun rose clear of the 
banking clouds of gold and crimson, and the full light 
came with startling suddenness revealing all the wild 
beauty of the desolate hills. A scene of more than ordi¬ 
nary grandeur, or so it seemed to the man whose heart was 
throbbing with a passion that almost frightened him and 
whose whole sensitive being was thrilling and responding 
to the radiant glory of this most marvellous sunrise he 
had ever witnessed. Behind them Hosein was on his 
knees absorbed in rapt devotion, and alone with her he 
viewed the advent of the new day, the new life that they 
would live together. The reins dropped loose on Suli¬ 
man’s neck as he raised her high in his arms till their lips 


280 


THE DESERT HEALER 


met and her shy eyes fell under the ardour of his burning 
kiss. A kiss that with its hungry passion, its complete 
possessiveness awoke her to a fuller realisation of the step 
she had taken. 

She was trembling when at last he released her, her 
quivering face scarlet with shame. Miserably she stared 
at him, struggling to free herself. 

“Let me go,” she moaned. “I hadn’t any right to ask 
you—I hadn’t any right to make it difficult for you.” 
But in her piteous eyes he read the despair that gave the 
lie to her stumbling sobbing words. 

“You want to go—back to him?” he said, slowly. And 
he was answered in the sharp cry that burst from her as 
she shuddered closer into his arms, clinging to him with 
all her feeble strength. With a soft little laugh of triumph 
he kissed her again and turned in the saddle to shout to 
Hosein who had finished his prayers and was waiting 
discreetly in the background with no sign of his inward 
astonishment visible in his imperturbable face. That the 
master he worshipped had been stricken with sudden mad¬ 
ness was to him the only possible explanation for the de¬ 
parture from established principle, that in his years of 
service he had become thoroughly acquainted with 
Shrewdly observant he had seen and wondered at the 
gradual change that had come over Carew since the night 
when he had amazed his retainers by bringing a woman 
to the camp from which women had always been 
religiously excluded. And now that same woman was 
lying across his saddle, a willing captive to the man who 
was bending over her with a face that was transfigured. 
That his master had no right to her, that she was the wife 


THE DESERT HEALER 


281 


of the foreign Sidi who had made himself so notorious 
in Algiers, were matters of indifference to Hosein. It 
was no business of his. If his lord had at last found 
happiness—who was he to judge him! He had been mad 
with that same madness himself once— 

As he ranged alongside leading the spare horse, Marny 
tried to raise herself. 

“I’m rested now—let me ride,” she murmured. But 
Carew saw her face contract with the pain that movement 
caused her, and shook his head. “You are not fit to ride. 
Lie still and rest,” he said, decisively. 

“But you can’t carry me all the way, I’m so heavy—” 
she objected, faintly. 

“Heavy!” he laughed, “about as heavy an an extra car¬ 
bine.” 

And following his swift glance she noticed for the 
first time the leathern holster that projected beyond his 
knee. The sight of it reminded her of the hazardous life 
that would be hers and made her rebel against the weak¬ 
ness that seemed to make her so unfit a companion for 
him. 

“Let me try,” she pleaded. But he shook his head 
again. 

“Do as you’re told my dear,” he said, with a smile that 
softened the peremptoriness of his tone. “You’re worn 
out, and you are on the highroad to fever unless you take 
things easily. I can’t have you knocking up out in the 
desert. You’ll want all your strength where we’re going.” 

Where were they going? She wondered without car¬ 
ing. She knew nothing of his plans. She was content to 
go where he took her, content to follow where he led. 


282 


THE DESERT HEALER 


She had given her life into his keeping, she was satisfied 
to leave to him the ordering of that life. With a tired 
sigh she dropped her head on his breast, thankful for the 
support of the strong arm crooked about her, yielding to 
the strength that was so strangely gentle. 

A drowsiness she did not attempt to combat stole over 
her as she lay with closed eyes listening to the murmur of 
the two men’s voices. They were speaking in Arabic 
which she did not understand, but it seemed to her that 
Carew was giving certain orders to which his servant re¬ 
sponded with his usual brevity. Then there was silence 
and dreamily she became aware that Hosein had left 
them and that they were alone on the top of the sun 
warmed hill. Dead with sleep she felt Carew’s arm 
tighten round her, heard without fully comprehending 
his explanation that he had sent the Arab on to prepare 
the camp for their coming, and slept as his lips touched 
hers. 

It was late in the afternoon when she woke. Still 
heavy and confused with sleep, at first she was conscious 
only of the feeling of bodily comfort that enveloped her. 
Her tired limbs were at rest and she lay propped against 
soft cushions that eased the dull ache of her wounded 
shoulders. With a little sigh of physical content, she 
nestled deeper into the silken pillows, inhaling the faint 
oriental perfume that clung about them, wondering 
vaguely when Ann would come to waken her. Ann? 
Ann would never come to her again! Ann was gone, the 
victim of petty spite and tyranny. And she— With a 
strangled cry she started up, trembling violently, staring 


THE DESERT HEALER 


283 


around her in bewilderment. Then remembrance came 
with a rush, and sobbing with relief she sank back on the 
cushions of the wide divan where once before she had 
slept with such curious confidence. 

Wonderingly she looked about the room, at the simple 
but costly Arab furnishings, at the well stocked gun rack 
that stood near the couch on which she was lying, at the 
litter of masculine belongings that with their suggestion 
of intimacy served to bring home to her even more fully 
than before the significance of what she had done. His 
room! The hot blood flamed into her cheeks and she hid 
her face in the pillows, whispering his name, shivering 
with a new sweet fear and joy that made her long for 
him and yet shrink from even the thought of his coming. 

How long since he had brought her here? How 
long since she had fallen asleep in his arms on the 
top of the sun-bathed hill? The room was perceptibly 
darker when at last she raised her head and sat up, listen¬ 
ing for some sound to penetrate from the adjoining room 
that should assure her of his nearness. But she heard 
only the distant hum of the scattered camp—the shrill 
squeal of an angry stallion, the doleful long-drawn bray 
of a donkey and, near at hand, the monotonous creak and 
whine of some unknown piece of mechanism whose use 
she could not guess. Strange, unfamiliar noises that yet 
seemed so oddly familiar, like the faint echoes of a far- 
off memory urging the remembrance of another long for¬ 
gotten life when she had lived and loved in close proxim¬ 
ity to the sounds that now thrilled her with vague won- 
derings. Did love ever die—was this passion that had 
overwhelmed her so suddenly only the reawakening of a 


284 


THE DESERT HEALER 


love that had been born in bygone ages? Had she loved 
him then! Had he too lived in that remote past that 
seemed struggling for recognition? Had their wandering 
souls, long desolate and alone triumphed over the barrier 
that separated them to converge once more and know 
* again the transient rapture of earthly happiness? 

With a tremulous smile she slipped from the couch and 
went slowly to the little dressing table at the further end 
of the room. Curiously she stared at herself in the tiny 
mirror, frowning at the weary white face she saw re¬ 
flected. 

The close-drawn haick had been removed and, tumbled 
by the heavy head-dress, her hair lay loose in curling 
waves about her shoulders. The colour crept into her 
cheeks again as she strove to roll it up into something 
approaching order. And as she wrestled with the few 
pins that remained to her, two hands placed suddenly on 
her shoulders made her start violently. “Must you hide it 
all away? It was very pretty as it was.” There was a 
new note in his voice, a new hint of definite ownership 
in his manner as he coolly unloosened the soft coils she 
had hastily bound up and drew her to him. But she 
dared not meet his look and, surrendering to his arms, 
she hid her face against him in an agony of shyness. 

With a tender word of expostulation he slipped his 
hand under her chin and raised her head. His ardent love 
was crying out for expression but the shamed piteousness 
of her eyes checked the passionate words that rushed to 
his lips. What was his love worth if self came before 
consideration? He stooped his cheek to hers. 

“Do you think I don’t understand,” he murmured, “do 


THE DESERT HEALER 


285 


you think I don’t realise how—strange it is? But you 
can’t be shy with me, dear. Only remember that I love 
you, that I’d give my life to keep you happy. I’ll do all I 
can to make it easy for you—” But even as he spoke the 
restraint he imposed on himself slipped for a moment and 
he crushed her to him conclusively. “Child, child, if you 
knew how I have longed for you! If you knew what it 
means to me to hold you in my arms— here —to know that 
you are mine, mine, utterly. Marny—” He pulled him¬ 
self up sharply with a gesture of compunction, his hands 
dropping to his sides. 

“Forgive me, dear,” he said, gently, “I didn’t mean to 
be rough with you—I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.” 

The tears that were so near the surface welled into her 
eyes and she looked at him strangely. 

“Rough?” she whispered, slowly. “I wonder if you 
know what roughness means—I wonder if you could hurt 
me if you tried!” Then her face contracted suddenly and 
her hands went out to him in shuddering appeal. “Keep 
me from remembering!” she cried, wildly, “help me to 
blot out the past. I can’t tell even you. I want to forget 
—everything—everything but your love. Oh, my Desert 
Healer, you heal others, heal me too! Make me strong 
again—strong and fit to share your life, to be your 
helper—Don’t let me think! Oh, Gervas, don’t—let—me 
—think! ” 

The look he had dreaded to see again was back in her 
eyes and her whole body was shaking as she clung to 
him with all her shyness forgotten in the greater mental 
distress that made her seek his help and consolation. 
With almost womanly tenderness he soothed her, holding 


286 


THE DESERT HEALER 


her till the nervous trembling passed and she lay still in 
his arms. 

“It’s over,” he said, at last, “over and done with. It’s a 
new life we’ve begun together, dearest. A new life that 
will bring you health and strength and, God helping me, a 
greater joy than we have ever known. The desert will 
heal you, Marny, as it healed me years ago. Shut your 
mind to the past. Think only of the future—and of our 
happiness.” 

A bitter sob escaped her. 

“We haven’t any right to be happy,” she moaned. He 
did not answer but she felt him stiffen suddenly and her 
eyes leaped to his with a new fear dawning in them. 

“Gervas—” she gasped, “what will you do—if he won’t 
divorce me? Oh, you don’t know him as I do, you don’t 
know of what he is capable. He would do it just to feel 
that his power was over me still, just to keep me bound, 
just to hurt us. Gervas, if I can never be free, if I can 
never be your wife—what then?” 

A shadow passed over his face as he looked down at 
her. 

“Will the price of our happiness be too big for you to 
pay, Marny—or is it me that you doubt?” he asked, 
slowly. 

“Gervas —” But his kisses stopped her frantic protes¬ 
tations and there was only love and pity in his eyes as 
he gathered her closer. “You will always be my wife— 
as you are my wife to me, now. Nothing can ever alter 
that. Nothing shall ever come between us. God knows 
how you’ve suffered, and He can judge me lor what I 
have done when the time comes. But while I live you’re 


THE DESERT HEALER 


287 


mine and no power on earth shall take you from me.” 
His deep voice was vibrant with passion and for a mo¬ 
ment the fierce pressure of his arms was pain. Then as if 
ashamed of his own display of feeling he put her from 
him. 

“I’m a brute,” he exclaimed, remorsefully. “Come and 
eat, you pale child. I hadn’t the heart to wake you before, 
you were sleeping so soundly.” 

Shyness fell on her again as he led her into the adjoin¬ 
ing room. And throughout the meal that followed she 
was very silent, eating mechanically what was put before 
her and studiously avoiding his eyes as from time to time 
she glanced with furtive curiosity about the big tent. 

His heart ached for her as he watched her with an in¬ 
tentness he was careful to conceal. He was longing to 
help her, longing to make easier the difficult situation 
which he knew she was only now realising in its entirety, 
fearful of augmenting her constraint by any word or 
gesture that should emphasise the new relationship be¬ 
tween them. Love made it easy for him to guess her 
thoughts. With fine intuition he understood perfectly the 
struggle that complete realisation must have awakened in 
her mind. Though she loved him, though she had given 
herself to him, still he knew that she must be shrinking 
sensitively from the consequences of her own act. His 
arms had been a refuge she had turned to in her need, 
but they were the arms of the man who loved her and 
here, in his tent, she must be facing the hard fact of her 
obligation, facing the payment of her freedom—a pay¬ 
ment that only love could make endurable. More than 
ever did his own love clamour for utterance but he 


288 


THE DESERT HEALER 


gripped himself resolutely, playing the part of impassive 
host with almost cold courtesy while he attended to her 
wants and keeping the conversation strictly to trivialities, 
and trivial conversation was not easy. They knew so 
little tne one of the other. He had as yet no knowledge 
of her tastes, no knowledge of her interests. In spite of 
the love that had swept them both off their feet they were, 
to all intents and purposes, strangers to each other, and 
further hindered by her shy reserve a common meeting 
ground was difficult to find. 

But when the short twilight had faded and the lamps 
were lit in the tent, when Hosein had come and gone for 
the last time leaving them alone, he found it impossible to 
maintain the detached attitude he had adopted, impossible 
to avoid reference to certain subjects that must of neces¬ 
sity be discussed between them. The sense of their alone- 
ness, the intimacy of the moment, was stirring him deeply 
and the sight of her lying amongst the heaped up cushions 
of the divan, lovelier than he had ever seen her, infinitely 
pathetic as she seemed in her utter dependence on him, 
was an appeal that was too strong to be resisted and his 
heart was beating furiously as he went to her. 

And affected no less than he, her breath came fast and 
her shy eyes met his for only a moment as she moved to 
make place for him. Sitting down beside her he caught 
her slim hands up to his lips. Then, still holding them in 
his firm grasp, he crashed through the faint barrier that 
had risen between them and spoke with unreserved frank¬ 
ness of the future and the life that they would share to¬ 
gether. And afterwards, because he believed that only 
by mutual confidence and trust could their love be per- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


289 


fected, he broke the silence of years and told her the story 
of his life, the tragedy that had wrecked his early man¬ 
hood and driven him to a self-imposed exile, and of the 
consolation he had found in the work that had become so 
dear to him. And his own confidence ended, he drew 
from her, bit by bit, the history of her girlhood and piti¬ 
ful marriage. But of what she had suffered at the hands 
of the brute to whom her brother had sold her she would 
say nothing. 

“You know,” she whispered, with quivering lips, “you 
saw—the morning after the Governor’s ball. I can’t speak 
of it. It hurts me.” For a moment he held her closely, 
his eyes blazing as once before she had seen them blaze, 
then he rose abruptly and striding across the room flung 
back the closed entrance flap and stood in the open door¬ 
way staring out into the night. 

She twisted on the divan to watch him, wondering what 
chain of thought her words had set in motion, wondering 
if he was vexed at her reticence. But he gave no ex¬ 
planation of his hasty movement, and after a time he 
came back slowly, his face inscrutable as she had ever 
known it, and squatted, Arab fashion, on a pile of cush¬ 
ions near her. Lighting a cigarette, for a while he talked 
fitfully, his brief remarks punctuated by lengthy silences 
she did not know how to break. And as the evening wore 
on he grew more and more distrait until finally he ceased 
to speak at all, sitting motionless with his eyes fixed on the 
rug, smoking cigarette after cigarette. 

She knew that it was late. The tom-toms and pipes, 
that earlier in the evening had resounded from the men’s 
quarters, had long since died away. She was conscious of 


290 


THE DESERT HEALER 


a silence that could be almost felt, she found herself 
straining her ears to catch some sound that should mod¬ 
erate the deep quiet that was reminiscent of long ago 
nights in Ireland. But for once there was peace amongst 
the picketed horses and not even the wail of a jackal 
came to break the intense stillness. It was as if all the 
world slept and only she was awake—she and the man to 
whom she must soon yield the final proof of her love and 
surrender. She slid her arm across her burning face and 
shrank closer against the silken pillows, shivering uncon¬ 
trollably, torn with the conflict that raged within her. 
She loved him, with her whole being she loved him— 
madly, utterly. To give him all he demanded would be 
joy beyond expression—but, oh, dear God, why must 
their love be stained with sin! Last night he had loved 
her well enough to let her go—and her coward body had 
driven her to plead with him until his renunciation be¬ 
came impossible. It was she who was responsible. It 
was her sin, not his—and let her be the only one to pay. 
Passionately she prayed it, clenching her teeth to smother 
the sounds of agony that rose in her throat. Weak with 
emotion, vaguely frightened by his continued abstraction, 
she was aching for the clasp of his arms, hungering for 
his kisses, longing for the comfort and reassurance of his 
voice. Of what was he thinking as he sat motionless, 
scowling heavily as he stared into space, no longer even 
smoking. Was it the remembrance of the early sorrow of 
which he had told her that made his face so stern and 
sad? A swift spasm of jealousy shook her. But she 
crushed it down, her tender brooding eyes growing misty 
with tears. What need had she to be jealous! The past 


THE DESERT HEALER 


291 


was over—and his love was hers. He had proved it be¬ 
yond all doubt. And he had done so much already, it 
was foolish to expect that every moment of his time 
could be given to her. He had other matters beside her¬ 
self to engage his attention, matters that now, because of 
her, must necessarily have become more complex. It was 
only natural that he should be pre-occupied and silent. 
She must be content to wait. He would turn to her again 
in his own good time. 

And when at last he stirred and rose with swift noise¬ 
lessness to his feet, she was lying so still that he thought 
she was asleep. For a moment he bent over her, his 
hands reaching out to the little recumbent body, his 
strong limbs shaking with the fierce tide of emotion that 
was pouring over him, his passionate eyes aflame with 
love and longing. Hungrily he gazed at the woman he 
had taken for his own. Why did he hesitate? Was she 
not his, his of her own free will, his to give him all he 
asked! Of what use to refrain? Who, after what he had 
done, would believe that he had spared her! And if her 
fears were justified, if she failed to win release—what 
would either of them have gained? If not tonight—then 
sooner or later, for he would never let her go. Wife or 
mistress, whichever it was to be, he would keep her while 
the breath of life was in him. Lower and lower he bent 
till the warm sweet nearness of her, the faint intoxicat¬ 
ing perfume of her fragrant hair, and his own desperate 
need combining shattered the last remnant of his self- 
control and he swept her up into his arms, straining her to 
his heaving chest, raining kisses on her lips, her eyes, her 
palpitating throat, till, panting and exhausted with the 


292 


THE DESERT HEALER 


force of his ardent embrace, her head fell back against 
his shoulder and he carried her white-lipped and trem¬ 
bling towards the inner room. But as he reached the 
screening curtains that barred his impetuous way he came 
to a sudden halt and the quivering eagerness of his face 
gave way to a look of doubt and bitter misery. Yearn¬ 
ingly he stared into her frightened eyes, then with a gasp¬ 
ing sob he slid her slowly to her feet and pushed her 
gently through the silken hangings. “Go—for God’s sake 
go,” he muttered, and wrenched the curtain into place. 

Not yet! Not while there still remained a chance that 
he might take her without dishonour. What the world 
would not believe was yet possible to him who loved her. 
Until he was sure, beyond all doubt, that she could never 
be legally free to marry him he would hold her unscathed, 
unsoiled by his passion. And, Merciful God, how long 
would that be? How long would he be able to hold out! 
He was pledged to Sanois and he had sworn to take her 
with him. Was he strong enough to withstand the temp¬ 
tation of long months spent in close proximity, riding 
day after day at her side under the burning sun, sleeping 
night after night with only a frail curtain between them? 
He did not know. He only knew that tonight his strength 
was gone and that he dared not stay beside her. The 
calm radiance of the star-lit sky, the deep stillness of the 
night mocked his as he fled from the tent he did not trust 
himself to look back on. A night of mystical beauty, redo¬ 
lent with the subtle odours of the east, languorous and 
heavy scented—a night for love and the fulfillment of 
desire. 

With a groan he swept his hand across his eyes, wrest- 


THE DESERT HEALER 


293 


ling with physical agony that was intolerable, cursing the 
scruple that kept him from her, cursing the man who 
stood between them. The blood was beating in his ears 
and his brain was on fire as he stumbled through the 
shadowy darkness of the little valley, striving to subdue 
the longing that possessed him, striving to banish the tor¬ 
turing thought of her nearness. Blind to the road he was 
taking, he saw only the sweet pale face that had flushed 
to the touch of his burning kisses, saw only the tempting 
beauty of the slender loveliness he craved. Was she 
asleep, as he prayed with all his soul she might be—or was 
she too awake, longing for him as he was longing for her, 
suffering as he was suffering? Just now she had trembled 
in his arms and he had seen the fear that leaped to her 
flickering eyes, but she had made no effort to repulse him, 
had made no plea for release. Instead she had clung to 
him. And it seemed to him that he could still feel the 
touch of her fingers, ice-cold and shaking against his, still 
feel the rapid beating of her heart, the tumultuous rise 
and fall of her delicate bosom as he carried her swiftly 
across the room. She had been willing, and he— He 
flung out his hands with a bitter cry and dropped like a 
log, burying his head in his arms. 

Hour after hour he lay motionless on the soft warm 
sand, too passion swept to sleep, till at last the raging 
fever that consumed him abated, and he knew that, for 
the time being, his victory over himself was complete. 

But there was no peace in his mind. There was an¬ 
other decision that had to be made before the stars faded 
and the sun rose on a new day—a decision he knew in his 
heart was already determined. By acceding to the 


294 


THE DESERT HEALER 


frenzied appeal of the woman he loved, in his endeavour 
to save her from further suffering, he had done a thing 
unpardonable. That did not trouble him. He did not re¬ 
gret it, he would never regret it. Her happiness was the 
only thing that weighed with him. Last night her need, 
and only her need, had been his sole consideration. Mad 
with fear she had implored him to take her from Algiers 
and, trembling for her reason, he had consented. But to¬ 
night his thoughts were centered on the husband from 
whom he had taken her. He would never give her up— 
but he would steal no man’s wife in secret. He was going 
back to Algiers—going back to face the man he had 
wronged. And what would be the outcome of that inter¬ 
view? No matter what Geradine had done—she was his 
wife. No matter what she had suffered at his hands—he 
was her husband. No extenuating circumstances could 
gloss over the hard indisputable fact or lessen his own 
culpableness. 

What would Geradine do? 

Carew rose deliberately to his feet with a harsh mirth¬ 
less laugh. He knew what he would do himself if the 
position were reversed, what he would unhesitatingly have 
done twelve years ago if the opportunity had been given 
him. And if Geradine shot him like a dog, as he deserved 
to be shot, what would become of the girl who trusted to 
him? To stay—and forfeit his own self-respect. To go 
—knowing that he might never return. Heavens above, 
what a choice! But there was no other way thinkable. 
His mind was fixed, and the rest lay with Geradine. 
Would the cur who had stooped to strike a woman fight 
to regain possession of her, fight to avenge his honour? 


THE DESERT HEALER 


295 


If he only would—by God, if he only would! The breath 
hissed through Carew’s set teeth and his strong hands 
clenched in fierce anticipation as his mind leaped forward 
to the coming meeting. The primitive man in him was 
uppermost as he thought with curious pleasure of Gera- 
dine’s huge proportions and powerful limbs. There was 
not much to choose between them. True he had thrashed 
him last night, but the man had been drunk. Heaven send 
that he was sober this time! 

With a strange smile he swung on his heel and strode 
back to the sleeping camp. 

But as he neared the tent his swift pace lessened and 
his sombre eyes were dull with pain as he passed under 
the lance-propped awning into the empty living room. 
How could he leave her to wait alone until he came again 
—or did not come! What would be the effect of those 
long-drawn hours of suspense on the nervous brain that 
was already dangerously overstrained and excited? His 
stern lips quivered as he parted the curtains and felt his 
way to the long low couch that was only dimly visible. 

His tentative whisper was answered by a stifled sob, 
and out of the darkness two soft bare arms came trem¬ 
blingly to close about his neck and drew his head down to 
the pillow that was wet with her tears. That she had 
wept bitterly was evident, and shaken by the distress his 
resolution almost failed. But he crushed the momentary 
weakness that came over him. “My dear, my dear,” he 
murmured, huskily, “have I made you weep so soon? 
Have I failed you tonight of all nights when you needed 
me most? Did you think I didn’t care—that I didn’t 
want you! Do you think it was easy for me to go from 


296 


THE DESERT HEALER 


the heaven of your arms to a hell of loneliness under 
those cursed stars? God knows it was hard—as hard as 
it is for me to say what I’ve got to say to you now.” 
And with characteristic directness he told her plainly the 
course he had decided. 

At first she did not seem to understand, then as she 
grasped the meaning of his words a cry of terror burst 
from her. “You can’t go—you can’t, you can’t. Oh, 
Gervas, stay with me, don’t leave me! If you go you’ll 
never come back and I—” she shuddered, horribly, and 
her frenzied voice sank to an agonised whisper. “He’ll 
kill you. Gervas, he’ll kill youl” 

“Pray God, I don’t kill him,” he retorted, grimly, and 
with gentle force he unloosened the tightly clasped arms 
that were locked about his neck. “I’ve got to go, dear,” 
he said, steadily, “it’s the only thing I can do,” And 
unable to bear the sound of her passionate weeping he 
turned away. But with a wail of anguish she leaped to 
her feet, striving with all her strength to hold him. 

“Gervas, Gervas, don’t leave me like that—tell me you 
love me, tell me you’ll come back to me—” 

For a long moment his lips clung to hers, then he laid 
her on the bed. “You know I love you, Marny,” he 
answered, “it is because I love you that I am going back to 
Algiers.” There was a note of intense sadness in his voice 
that made her bury her face in the pillow to stifle the 
sobs that were fast growing beyond control, but there 
was also in it a ring of finality that made further plead¬ 
ing impossible. Nothing she could say would move him. 
His will was stronger than hers and she knew that, de¬ 
spite the love and consideration that henceforward would 


THE DESERT HEALER 


297 


make possession so different, she had but exchanged one 
master for another. 

When she raised her head again she was alone and she 
started up, trembling with dread, listening till her ears 
ached that she might hear the last sound of his voice. 
But there was only silence in the adjoining room and, 
driven by an irresistible impulse, she fled through the 
communicating curtains. The loose entrance flap was 
only partially closed and, screened by the looped-back 
draperies she waited scarcely breathing, straining her 
eyes through the gloom, praying that she might see him 
once more. 

And when he came it was only a momentary glimpse, 
a fleeting impression of two shadowy horsemen who 
flashed past the tent to vanish in the darkness beyond 
as though they had never been, and sobbingly she stumbled 
back to the inner room, flinging herself in a passion 
of tears on the bed where she had wept throughout the 
lonely hours of the night. She did not question his 
action, it was enough for her that he had done what he 
thought best. And there was no bitterness in her grief. 
Selfless, she did not think of herself. It was only of him 
she was thinking, only for him she was agonising. The 
brutal strength she knew by terrible experience, the sav¬ 
age unbridled nature she had learned so thoroughly— 
what would he do? What ghastly tragedy would ensue 
from the meeting of these two men so strangely opposite, 
so strangely linked by a common desire? Tortured by 
horrible imaginings, mad with fear, she writhed in mental 
anguish that took from her all power of reasoning, and 
tossing to and fro on the soft bed that still gave no rest 


298 


THE DESERT HEALER 


to her aching limbs, she wept until she had no more tears, 
until exhausted she fell asleep. 

It was mid-day before she woke. The room was filled 
with light, hot with the vertical rays of the sun blazing 
down on the roof of the tent. Slipping from the bed 
she stood for a moment holding her throbbing head be¬ 
tween her hands, then moved languidly towards the dress¬ 
ing table. At the further end of the room she found a 
little bathroom, Spartan-like in its appointments but con¬ 
taining all that was needful and half-an-hour later, 
bathed and refreshed, she went listlessly into the living 
room. 

As she came through the curtain, Hosein, who was 
squatting on his heels by the doorway, rose to his feet 
with a deep salaam. And listening to his low-voiced in¬ 
quiry whether it was her pleasure to eat, she wondered 
how long he had been waiting there, wondered what lay 
behind his inscrutable face and suave deferential manner. 
She had learned from Carew last night of his Arab ser¬ 
vant’s devotion, and of the confidence that existed be¬ 
tween them, and his presence now gave her a curious 
feeling of reassurance. She knew without being told that 
Carew must have left her in his keeping, knew also that 
Hosein must be perfectly aware of the reason of his 
master’s absence, and his calm demeanour and untroubled 
expression seemed insensibly to soothe her own agitation 
of mind. But when the meal which had appeared with 
almost magical quickness was finished, when Hosein had 
gone again and she was alone once more, the temporary 
courage that had come to her faded as new doubts and 
fears crowded in upon her more overwhelmingly than 


THE DESERT HEALER 


299 


before. How could she rest! How could she bear the 
torture of long hours of waiting—waiting that might 
never end! 

And mingling with the present agony came the mem¬ 
ory of past suffering. Why had the way of life been 
made so difficult for her? To what end the misery she 
had endured? Was it that through sorrow and pain she 
might attain to a greater perfection hereafter? Her lips 
quivered. The goal had been too high for her endeavour. 
Her faith had not been strong enough to trust only in the 
Divine Comforter. In her despair she had turned to 
earthly consolation, and the clamouring of her starved 
heart had driven her into the arms of the man who loved 
her. And stronger than she, he had striven to save her 
from the consequences of her weakness. But she had 
tempted him—tempted him with her fear, tempted him 
with her threat of suicide. Why didn’t he hate her for the 
vile despicable thing she was! Gervas! Gervas! Cold 
and shivering, tortured with suspense, unconscious of the 
passing hours, she huddled on the divan, hoping, despair¬ 
ing, until concrete thought became at last impossible, until 
all her senses seemed merged into one dominant percep¬ 
tion as she lay listening, listening for the soft thud of 
galloping hoofs. 

And in the end, it was no actual sound that roused her, 
but an instinctive intuition, an indefinite something pene¬ 
trating to her brain that sent her flying with shaking 
limbs and palpitating heart to the open doorway. 

The sun was setting and every detail of the rosy-tinged 
landscape stood out in sharp and clear relief. But her 
wild dilated eyes saw nothing of the peaceful beauty of 


300 


THE DESERT HEALER 


her surroundings as she waited, sick with apprehension 
for the moment that should determine her fate. 

The camp was curiously silent. There was no sign of 
life, nothing to impede her view except the odd blur that 
came over her eyes at intervals. How long she stood 
there she never knew. One thought only held her motion¬ 
less, one question that her pallid lips repeated monoto¬ 
nously. Which—which? 

And then, quite suddenly, she knew —knew even before 
the three swift moving horses swept into sight from be¬ 
hind the angle of jutting rocks that framed the entrance 
to the little valley. Faint with the shock of relief she 
clung to the curtains for support, watching them gallop 
towards the tent as though the hounds of hell were at their 
heels. Why were there three? Only one attendant had 
gone with him. And the horseman who rode so closely 
behind was no Arab. Her heart seemed to miss a beat as 
she recognised the slim little figure whose crouching seat 
in the saddle was so familiar to her. Oh, God, what had 
happened! Why was Tanner with him! 

But she had no time for reflection. She saw the foam 
flecked black horse, savage and intractable still in spite of 
the punishing ride, race to the very entrance of the tent; 
saw his rider drag him, screaming and fighting, to a 
standstill. Then as Carew leaped to the ground, an over¬ 
mastering panic seized her and she shrank back into the 
room wide eyed and trembling. 

He came through the doorway slowly, reeling slightly 
as he walked, and took her into his arms without a word. 
His face was grey with dust and fatigue and there was a 
strangeness in his manner that forced utterance from her. 


THE DESERT HEALER 


301 


“Geradine—” The fearful whisper was barely audible, 
but he heard it and his arms tightened round her with a 
quick convulsive movement. 

“Dead,” he said tensely. 

She did not flinch from him but her face went ghastly 
and a terrible shudder passed through her. 

“Not you, oh, Gervas, not you?” she breathed, imploringly. 

His tired eyes looked into hers with infinite tenderness, 
infinite understanding. 

“No, thank God, it was not I,” he said quietly. “Malec 
killed nim. They killed each other. Tanner found them 
when he went back to the house early the next morning. 
The other servants had cleared out—the place was empty. 
I can’t tell you any more, dear. It’s too—beastly.” 

She was leaning weakly against him, her face hidden in 
his robes, shivering from head to foot. And as he broke 
off abruptly, she shuddered closer to him, clutching at 
his burnous with shaking fingers. 

“Was it my fault—was it our fault?” she gasped, with 
a ring of horror in her voice. 

“No,” he answered, almost violently, “it was his own 
fault. He brought it on himself. But he’s dead, poor 
devil, and God knows I haven’t the right to judge him.” 

He held her silently for a moment, then the strained 
rigidity of his features relaxed and a great gladness 
dawned in his eyes as he stooped his tall head to the soft 
curls lying on his breast. 

“Marny,” he whispered, impellently, “Mamy—my 
wife!” And with a little cry that was love and trust and 
joy unutterable, she lifted her tear wet face and yielded 
her lips to his. 









































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